I woke up this morning. Something, someone, was missing. I looked around, and on top of my computer, there was a hastily scrawled note in familiar handwriting. My own.
"What the hell?" I thought. "I didn't remember writing any notes..." Nervously, I picked it up. It read as follows:
I am sorry, but I need a break. I've been helping you so much, and well, frankly, you haven't given very much back. So I'm taking a vacation. I should be back within the week, but if I am later, do not fret. This is for both our benefits, as I've no ideas to give when I'm this tired.
"Oh shit," were the only words that found my lips. Quickly, I whipped out a notebook, pen in hand. Nothing. Not my signature starter phrase. Not layout inspiration. I forced myself to write something. All that came out was the following:
That was all. I was empty. I was alone from my inspiration. Writing poetry keeps me sane. It keeps my feelings from either over or underwhelming me. But... now. It's gone, now. She's gone. I certainly hope that she's enjoying herself, no matter where she is. But she had damn well better have some good ideas when she gets back here.