i came up with the title of this poem first... about a year ago, this is just a different version because i like that one line so much

i am that ink
smeared on his finger tips
smuged on his forehad
while he lies in bed
dreaming
plotting
creating

and when he wakes
i am the morning coffee
in his favorite mug
as he stares at last night's drafts
covered in his ink
his smudges
and doodles
covered in me

and when i wake
and leave him here alone
i am still there
in his heart
i am his insperation
and i dont know if i
can shoulder that responsibility