Estranged dreams

Sometimes you're just there,
waiting.
Sometimes you're not.
But searching for you
makes me realise
how often the latter is the case.

You hold the key to my failings,
the source of my creation, and
guard it zealously.

Inspired, I scrawl a note,
ecstatic.
Only to lose it.
Finding it months later,
giving me the impetus to begin gain, to try once more,
Your fleeting visit marked
only by a keen few,
trolling the tubes,
abed in a storm.

Then, you leave for good.
Only to be replaced.
Your double,
however antipodious,
my Muse ,
the Vandrich corporeal.
Pouring into me
with that which you bring so infrequently, so irregularly.

Then, all too soon, she leaves. Bounding away forever.
A thousand pieces lay unfinished in my storage box of a mind.
The pitiful excuse for an artist, what I'd like to be,
but could never achieve.
I watch some come and go.
And I wish they were you.
But I should know you better, since you stayed with me
for so many lives.
Only to desert me
when I finally realised it was you I'd been searching for.
If that takes some
chloroform or a handgun,
what am I to do?
It may be uncreative,
but how else can I be
without you?