A Few More Days Meditating on the End of Sabbatical

She was nothing if not practical, if not downright opportunistic. He wanted her to care, but she was an indifferent Muse, as she had to be. He knew that when he fell in love with her. Her determination, her fickle interest in the ephemeral, was part of what drew him to her as surely as it would later drop him like a cold potato. He knew all of that, proceeded anyway, eyes not exactly open, feet not exactly beholden to good sense. What would it matter, really, in the end, whether he burned all his bridges or died having been a well-behaved, serious man? For him, at this stage, there was only this moment, the hope for happiness, the impossible state of a heart on fire. He painted the day with his dream and saw only dawn from the seat of midnight. He would later wander the moonlit arroyos whispering her name to the end of his days, gratitude spilling from his lips.