My Muse sits gagged and bound in the corner, her eyes flashing contempt at my insolence, her divine tresses in an unaccustomed state of dishevelment. I couldn’t help it, I had to restrain her, stern measures were called for. I caught her standing in front of the mirror (always a bad sign, the frown as she caught sight of me a dead giveaway), a chaos of lipstick and mascara, superfluous powders and creams to smear over her unwrinkled brow. No creases or folds of extraneous flesh, her unchanging figure always displayed to perfection. Her fingertips trailing blossom, she would have wrapped herself around him like a sudden tendril of convolvulus. I suspect it had something to do with her raking through my photographs, ransacking my hidden images of his irreverence. Her tastes too often coincide with mine for comfort, she cannot resist his charms. She whirled wildly in abandon, casting her sandals into the undergrowth, distracting the swifts from their boisterous gathering of insects. Her sides heaved like the flanks of a hunting dog after the pursuit. She danced until her feet blistered, my entreaties finally coaxing her homeward. As she flopped, exhausted, on the bed, I knew her fatigue would not last. I drew the curtains to encourage her to sleep, biding my time until I spotted the dribble on the pillow case that had trickled from her imperishable mouth. Those devouring lips kindled my envy; it was all I could do not to suffocate her. I loosened her waistband, slipping the cords around her wrists, pausing as she let out a sigh of bliss. Her consuming flame would have singed his beard, her hungry caresses held him back. Now she too can discover what it is to suffer the sublime torture of his absence.