Harry Potter is very aware of the phrase, "always the artist, never the muse." He is also very aware of the variations of said quote, such as "always the poet, never the poem." And he is just as aware of the fact that many people view this quote as something sad or even pitiful.
Harry does not agree with this view.
Not when his muse is someone he could write about for the rest of time and then some.
Not when his muse had icy silver eyes, topped with long golden lashes, that are quite literally windows to his soul. Windows that twinkle with both amusement and bashfulness as they meet his own emerald green as he catches Harry staring at him. 'I know I'm gorgeous but blimey, tone it down a bit will you?' Staring at the way they represent almost everything Harry loves about him. Almost. Not that Harry doesn't melt at the way they look at him with unwavering love, adoration, and care. The concern and worry in them whenever he noticed something was up with Harry. And he always. Did. No matter how many times and how hard he tried to conceal his own pain. He just always knew. Not that Harry doesn't sit there for hours as he practically reads the same book his muse does without looking at the actual printed text as he experiences the same story but through narrowed eyes during rather intense scenes, slightly widened eyes at revelations, and squinted eyes during confusing ones. It's just that there was so much to love that it was hard to represent all of it with only one part of him.
Not when his muse had faint signs of life in his face that he didn't love nearly as much as Harry did. 'Bloody hell, I'm practically ancient.' Harry cherished everything about the soft crinkles residing near the outer corners of his eyes and the longer lines near the sides of his mouth from the joy and laughter he experienced throughout his years. Harry was quite proud of himself to be the main source of said joy.
Not when his muse had a head of height on him which he never missed an opportunity to tease him about. 'And here I thought the height was just a pre-pubescent thing. Guess you'll really never be able to reach the top cabinet.' Okay maybe he didn't love that part about him as much as the others. (Yes, he did.) The way he slightly bends to kiss Harry. The way his height makes their cuddling ten times more comfortable as Harry's head fit perfectly into the crook of his neck. The way he's the one to hold the umbrella on rainy days. The way his hugs from behind feel like a puzzle piece sliding into place, making Harry whole again. (The way it also means he's the perfect height for head...)
Not when his muse had a mouth that says things that can and do make Harry fall apart at the seams. Caring, concerned, loving, teasing, humorous, suggestive words that could immediately make Harry drop whatever he was doing and come running (flying, flooing, whatever) faster than the speed of light. 'I love you.' A mouth that remembered the earlier years of speech, when it still spoke French as its only language. 'Je t'aime.'
Not when his muse had platinum blond hair that shone in the light, never a hair out of place. 'Do you even know how much I spend to get it to look like this? Well, do you?'
Not when his muse practically embodied the word, fit. His toned body that easily filled out those posh, black suits he adored so much. The same body that could manhandle him as if he were dealing with a mere package.
Not when his muse was the image of beauty. It didn't matter if he was mad, sad, happy, annoyed, or even pouting. He still had the same pretty face that Harry found difficult to describe with just words from a dictionary.
Not when his muse had skilled, manicured, thin fingers, one which adorned a very special ring, that were versatile in many different situations. When the two of them were holding hands, cooking, baking, practicing magic, or even making love.
Not when his muse had a mind which was the most brilliant thing Harry could think of that was within this realm of existence. Most people are categorized by book smart, street smart, or left brain, right brain, but his muse checked off all of those boxes. Even during their Hogwarts years, he consistently scored top of their year, dedicating himself to his studies, yet still knew how to handle himself in the 'real world.' He excelled in both theory and in practice, and in his knowledge of the complex being that is Harry Potter.
Not when his muse could read him as easily as he could read the alphabet. When Harry would try to punish himself by restricting his food intake. (He would make a plate for Harry, with just the right amount of food as to not make him sick but also a healthy amount, along with a cuppa that he knew helped with how the food sat in his stomach after years of malnutrition.) When Harry would clean every inch of the house, making it shine with how spotless it was because he thought he needed to earn the love his muse so earnestly gave to him. (He would calmly ask what Harry was doing and why he was doing it, then whisper sweet nothings in his ear as they cuddled after Harry somewhat got it into his head that he deserved everything good that happened to him.) When Harry tried to hide any sort of injury, mental or physical. ('If you so much as mutter the word, fine, one more time, Merlin, help me I will-') When Harry tried to hide a nightmare from the night before. ('Harry, love, how long exactly do you think we've been married for? Let alone dating?') When Harry's anger issues got the best of him, but he 'managed' them by taking it out on himself. ('Please, darling. Don't do this to yourself.') Yet, despite all of this, it seemed his muse still found it hard to read the love Harry, himself, had for him, as if his love was written in Greek, a language he couldn't even begin to understand. A language to which he didn't even know the alphabet to. As if he didn't understand that someone could love him as much as he loved them, let alone more than.
Not when his muse loved him as if it was as easy as breathing. (And it was.)
Not when his muse, poem, lover, husband, best friend, sworn enemy, and absolute bane of his existence was Draco Malfoy-Potter.