My Muse, My Mistress - Her Return

My journal lies forgotten beside the bed, my scripts tossed aside the edges curling from age. I have forgotten the stroke of her hand, the brush of her lips as she whispered sweet prose for my pencil to create. Our passionate tryst just a memory, a forgotten photograph of happier times.

Though I try to recreate the rapture she invoked, my prose is lacking enchantment and intrigue. My Muse brought the pages to life with her dangerous ways, her wanton presence. Without her, I am a shadow of the writer I used to be, longing for the bountiful scripts she inspired.

My days have blended into months, her scent no longer lingers on the breeze from the open window. The yearning has subsided, her memory has faded into the background of my mind. I no longer reach out to stroke her silken hair, my heart no longer skips a beat at the thought of her dulcet tones. 

The breeze stirs, the pages of my journal shudder in anticipation. The curtains float away from the window, the summer breeze carries a glimpse of her perfume. My heart beats faster, I can almost feel her breath against my skin. 
Ah! Is it real? Has she returned?

I feel the brush of her lips against my ear, whispering promises of forgotten ecstasy. I turn from my desk; she is standing next to me her presence captivating in it's dominance. 

In my haste I stumble, falling into her arms with reckless abandon; A scorned lover forgiven. She embraces me as if she was only gone a moment,  leaving me sobbing with relief. She beckons me toward the locus of my enslavement with a bewitching look in her eyes. 

Again My Mistress captivates my heart and soul with a frenzy of unbridled prose.