On late into the night she types, and when her eyes will stay open no longer
she throws herself on the couch and sleeps in her clothing, teeth unbrushed,
mouth open, snoring.  As light creeps back into the disheveled room, she
rises, guzzles some milk from the jug, and continues typing.

After many days, her fingers stall.  She types a few more words, hesitates,
and stops.  She looks around, rubs her eyes, stretches.  She stares at the
walls and ceiling.  She knits her fingers.  She stands, paces the room -
notices the empty bowls, the greasy plates.  Slowly, she moves through the
room, gathering debris and carrying it to the trash, the dishwasher.  She
opens the blinds.  She tilts her head, as though listening for an inner
voice – but seems to hear nothing.

More days unfold.  The apartment is tidy, the crumbs vacuumed, the counters
wiped.  From time to time she sits in front of the computer, her fingers
perched on the keys – but the fingers remain still.  She slumps in her
chair, sighs, and gets up to straighten a pile of books into a neat stack.

Then one morning, as suddenly as it had departed, the muse returns.  The mad
typing resumes.  She smiles, lifts one hand briefly to stroke her ponytail,
types.

She clicks on her printer, and the loose papers churn out.  She gathers them
into a pile, its solid heft resting comfortably on her desk.  The cover
sheet, printed in size 36 font, is visible from across the room:

“Ron Bites It:  Harry and Hermione’s True Love Story”

but smoother, and taut, like the skin of a ray,

yet warm and plump, like a fresh-picked peach -

(but not so fuzzy.)

Luscious, smooth, soft, firm – I struggle for a metaphor,

And realize:  everything makes a wan comparison;

Baby cheeks set their own gold standard.

I kiss him again.