LV sulky smokey Muse

My Muse is holed up in the bath tonight,
She's pouting and has slid the lock to say
She has no plans of turning on the light,
And thinks that I should take myself away.
I know that she is smoking in the dark,
For little wisps curl underneath the door,
Half hinted adjectives and nouns embark,
Then dissipate not far above the floor.
I only have their charred scent in my nose,
A bit like snow, a bit like summer dust,
They give me nothing even fit for prose,
But here I sit, and write something I must.
   So she will smolder, since she will not flame,
   And later I'll sneak in, and snake the drain.