So you’re back. What do you expect me to do? Smile, and pretend you weren’t away? It hurts my face to turn my lips into a smile.

You never told me you were leaving. Never told me good-bye. I had no idea of where you were. No idea when you’d return.

Again.

Your absence left me hurting. I sat at tables alone, sipping coffee, beer, or wine, whatever beverage answered the moment’s call. I hoped with each of them, you’d be back, and I waited, hopeful as a child waiting for a gift, but you didn’t come. You didn’t show. You know it tore me apart.

Again.

So you’re back. What do you expect now? How am I to trust you after what you’ve done?

You’ve made me afraid, and I don’t like it when someone does that to me. That reminds me of the person I swore I wouldn’t be, the person I fight not to be, after others did that to me. You made me afraid, lonely, desperate and bitter. You made me worry that you’d never come back, and then what would I do? What would happen to my plans and dreams? Was I expected to just let them go? What would I be, when you’re so integral to me? I worried so much, I was sick. Food was uncomfortable in my stomach, and hostile to me tongue. I hated you because you’d betrayed me. You’d left.

Again.

So you’re back. And here we are. And what am I to do? I know what you are to me, and that I’m nothing to you. You made that clear.

Again.

So what am I to do but welcome you back, my muse? I’m relieved you’ve come back – oh, God, relieved? I’m fucking joyous. Ecstatic. And for now, I’ll hide from the plague of what-if scenarios you forced me to confront when you were gone. They’re no longer true, and no longer matter. Although, for a time, I thought —

But you’re here now, aren’t you?

Again.

Yes, I hate you, and, yes, I love you.

Again.

I don’t know how long you’ll be here. You never say. But here you are, so we know what I’m expected to do, damn you. I don’t have a choice. You’re always in control.

Yeah, so here you are, and here I am, which means, time to fucking write like fucking crazy, at least one more fucking time.

Maybe that’ll appease you enough that you’ll stay a little longer. I have hope.

Again.