She has gone for so long, perhaps too long. She has indulged me at times with whispers of her ghost or glimpses of her shadow, but I had not seen the complete splendor with which she has always graced my soul whenever I felt the need to summon her.
Now she's here. And I suddenly don't want her.
She looks the same. Same shoes. Longer hair. She looks a little disheveled, perhaps even malnourished. She looks at me with tired eyes, her breasts robbed of the suppleness that always seduced me. The roses that once grew on her skin have all but withered, leaving only a pale and barren expanse of limbs, torsos, fingers, and a face haunted by the memory of a smile.
I don't know what to do with her. I don't know what she wants.
I want to tell her to go away, but I can't. It seems that I still love her, even if she has lost the light that made her so beautiful. The sea in her eyes has almost dried up, but she reminds me that there is always hope in almost—the ocean, like her heart, will beat again with bounty, and the sky will breathe life into her like it always does when she finds herself suffocated by its vastness.
Where did she go? I stop myself from asking because it doesn't really matter. What matters is that she's come back to me. My prodigal muse has come back.
"Welcome home," I tell her with a kiss.
Was it a smile that moved between her lips? Maybe so. She looks too weak to smile, but I owe it to myself to wonder.
