I thought you were my muse,

Yet you disappoint me daily.

I cannot see without you;

Cannot think.

I’ve lost you.

You left me.

How could you?

I miss your little jokes,

Your snippets of conversation

Muttered in my eager ear;

Your bristly whiskers tickling.

I miss your plush presence

As you dangle round my neck.

My shoulder is bare and light

Without your shifting weight.

The thoughts that once flowed free

Stay now bottled;

Untapped.

They have no way to reach the page.

My muse has gone;

Has left me stranded

Far out away from shore

Without a raft or wave

To ride.

When you were here

I could soar;

Could swoop and dive and soar.

Now I sit grounded

Without wings.

They are gone with you.

If you return

Then will I soar again;

Your weight to guide me;

Your mumbles inspire me.

If it is true that creativity is within

Then it takes a muse to bring it out.

It does not leak to the surface

Of its own volition.

It must be coaxed.

What if creativity is not within?

If it were without?

The muse whispers it.

The muse creates.

Once you whispered in my ear,

Unselfishly

Willing me to create.

I once belittled you,

Your small, insignificant form,

Your grating, hissing voice.

I thought I could create,

But I was wrong.

Now I pine.

I mope.

I need

Your ideas.

I cannot create.

I never could.

I thought you served me,

But now I know

It is I-

I who serve you,

A slave to my slave.

The pen sags in my hand.

Its ink

Mingling with the splash

Of hopeless tears.

Shall I send someone for you?

Will you resist?

Will you flee?

Will you return to me?

Little furry dude!

Oh, for a moment

I thought you were my muse…