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Muse

Lying asleep last night I met my muse. I almost missed her because she is fairy-quick and hides quite frequently. I grabbed her wrist, tugging on her copper corduroy blazer; she turned and looked at me. She spoke; I heard it with my mind. "I like that you're trying to write a story about me," she said. "I don't know what your story is," I said, "I only know what you look like. What do you want? Where are you going? I don't even know your name." She smiled, put her free hand on my cheek. I let go of her wrist, and just like that, she was gone.

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