She killed my muse

I used to write a lot. I kept a journal, nearly daily, from the time I was in 6th grade all the way through college. I have close to 15 volumes of pen scratches from that period of my life. I found a great outlet in music - writing compositions for a variety of instruments, singing, improvising on the piano.

Then I met Julia.

We've been married now for more years than those youthful journals cover, but I have only three or four journals from my life with her. I haven't composed music in many years.

I do still write the occasional poem, like this one, written three years into our marriage:

She killed my muse -
Just lit the fuse and blew it asunder,
Yanked the plug,
Pulled out the rug from under me.

She stole my quiet -
Caused a riot in my tranquil soul,
Disturbed my peace,
Made me cease my solitude.

She trespassed my heart -
Pried it apart and climbed inside,
Invaded my space,
Left me no place to hide me.

The emptiness that I once filled with words and music is now filled by my wife. I don't know how to describe it, other than to say that love came unexpectedly and completely.

I haven't spent much time mourning the muse.