My muse moved out in the middle of the night. She left no forwarding address. She lived with me for 18 months: the average length of my pre-Vicki relationships (Vicki and I passed that milestone 42 years ago). Her parting gift to me: Paul Sings Paul (a forthcoming album). I don’t expect to see her again; Vicki says she’ll call if she wants to see me again. I don’t have her number, so I can’t call her.
I won’t miss the 4 a.m. wakeup calls, as she drove me to the keyboard. I will miss the artistic output. People (and entities) come into our lives, sometimes for a season and a reason. I’m not sure why she came, why she left, or whether she’ll be back. But the only constant is change, so I accept her absence.
My parting gift to her is the poem I once wrote about her:
My muse dropped in.
While I slept.
She left this poem.
And then she left.
Her golden horse she rode away.
I think she’ll be back some day
And when she comes for goodness sake.
I hope she’ll come when I’m awake.