the sun came out

and at that, my muse stomps her little foot, grinding her black stiletto heel into the hardwood floor. she tosses her hair over her shoulder, pushes her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, picks up her briefcase, and marches out of the room, her nose in the air. on the desk she leaves a mess of unfinished poetry and crumpled-up who-knows-whats, spilling out of the wastepaper basket and onto the floor. no one wants them finished anymore.
the door slams as my muse makes her exit out the front door and climbs into her BMW. she's angry. she thinks she's leaving forever. but this has happened before. she'll come back.
and while she's gone, my heart beats happily - bumpbump, bumpbump - and my thoughts sing slready-written songs.