Missed.

You shift, again and again, without my influence you have reached full-bloom.
Yet you miss me, you stalk my prose and send little messages saying such nonsense as "I still crave you.",
"I wish you would write for me again." And I shrug, unable to lend myself to you that way. I cannot let you bury my soul, again and again, though I ache for your grave.

Or, perhaps, I just long for another Muse, one who accepts my secrets with an open mouth and upturned palms, one hungry for my weird truths. One who peers so constantly within and Love's what ails me. What mends me. What makes me.

That is what you make me miss. Not you, Goddess. But the agony of chasing you, wholly. While you sought to drag me into the dark.

God, I am a feast for the starved.