My muse touches my skin,

And whispers my inspiration.

The song of her voice,

So close to my ear.

A breeze on my conscience,

Like a forgotten dream.

My pen marks the page,

Scratching out thoughts.

She glances over my shoulder,

In approval, whispering still

Of amusement.

Of heartache.

Of longing.

Of joy.

My tool glides, looping,

Crossing, and dotting.

Scribbles out mistakes and wrong words.

Replaced with grace and attempted perfection.

My muse nods along,

Speaking encouragement.

So I thank her, I am grateful,

For her hand at my imagination.