Sometimes you're just there, waiting.
Sometimes you're not.
But searching for you makes me realise how often the latter is the case.
You hold the key to my failings, the source of my creation, and guard it zealously.

Inspired, I scrawl a note, ecstatic.
Only to lose it.
Finding it months later, giving me the impetus to begin again, to try once more,
Your fleeting visit marked only by a keen few, trolling the tubes, abed in a storm.

Then, you leave for good.
Only to be replaced.
Your double, however antipodious, my Muse en Lieu, the Vandrich corporeal.
Pouring into me with that which you bring so infrequently, so irregularly.

Then, all too soon, she leaves.
Bounding away forever.
A thousand pieces lay unfinished in my storage box of a mind.
The pitiful excuse for an artist, what I'd like to be, but could never achieve.

I watch some come and go.
And I wish they were you.
But I should know you better, since you stayed with me for so many years.
Only to desert me when I finally realised it was you I'd been searching for.

One day, I'll catch you.
And you'll stay.
If I don't give you the choice, you'll be mine forever, and I'll produce a world.
If that takes some chloroform or a handgun, what am I to do?

It may be uncreative, but how else can I be without you?