When writing isn’t easy

I find my muse in the closet, behind the spot where the cat hides in storms, behind heavy coats, in the darkest safest place. She looks up at me above tear-streaked cheeks, with more moisture rolling down rosy tender curves.
I'm not working at that office today. I can spend some time with you. Are you doing okay?
A blank stare.
I need to do some writing, can you please come out for a bit?
I need you to not be afraid. There are no protests in Iran today. Can you come out?
A reluctant pout.
Is it Michael?
Is it Farrah? Is it Ed? Is it David Carradine?
Nod. Nod. Nod.
Or is it Neda?
Hiding here in my closet won't make it feel any better. Would you like some chocolate?
Do you need more time?
I understand. I really do. I'll just have to see what I can write without you.

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