I Need a New Muse, This One's Broken

           I’d like to think, that if my form of inspiration were a person, we’d be in a horrible relationship. Sometimes, they’d call, and I’d be ecstatic to spend hours on the phone, giddy as can be. Other times, I’d just see the horrible “text read” on my phone, knowing full-well that they’re out partying with other friends because I saw their drunken post on their Instagram story at 1 AM.

           If Inspiration was a lover, they’d flirt with other people, constantly making eyes at everyone else. But I’d be just as jealous, wondering why it seems they always spent more time on others than they did on me. Or I’d be ungrateful for the gifts I got, wondering why other people had newer favors or shinier wrapping paper with pretty bows and tinsel. But, always, they’d come back around. We’d take walks together and explore the cities in new ways I hadn’t imagined, leaving me so dizzy that I’d forget to breathe.

          And always, like a lovesick fool, I’d ask Inspiration to stay.

           Don’t leave.

           Never leave.

           And, in the mornings, when the light filtered in through curtain blinds. When I was still stuck, half-in-a-dream and half awake, I’d see Inspiration on the edge of the bed. I’d reach out towards them, asking, “don’t—”

           And, like always, Inspiration would just smile at me and whisper, “I’ll return.”

           But I’d never know when.