last night, she said
As ignored as an unturned stone, I went writing; and if it wasn't for the swift click of a mis-set bone in my right wrist, there'd come no sound from the page. A finger-length of coffee left in my cup, cold against the cold table, fake sugar gritting between my teeth as every grimaced gulp escapes. There's no more room in my stomach for it, and yet my lips keep parting against the rim, something for my mouth to do other then talk or whistle, or kiss. In my thoughts is one hour from now, one hour until something more for my lips then what was good coffee; my mouth seeks something more filling like conversations with as much substance as the satisfaction of a bottomless mug. I think..."think of me", I think it well and long and hard. Someone is looking at from across the room, eyes lightly lucid over a laptop screen. They get lost when I meet their gaze, embarassed they stumble down my shoulder, (gray sweater) collar bone,(pale and one long curve) candy-cane red bra-strap,(silk) and stop there(.!) their eye reaching out for the fabric, holding it between the iris and several long lashes, "cheers" they think, and "happy happy holiday." I went writing; got there by the grace of a car that begged for summer, with a pen that threatened to die with each unapproaching stroke, and sustained myself, through that one hour by a tall cup of coffee, too wide of a glass for my chapped fingertips to touch around, and this writing. This horribly unedited persistent nag of words that beg "think of me".