I need to write something.
My pen is panicking,
hovering over a wasteland,
watching the minutes move on,
pleading for my attention.
I need to write something.
It’s October,
where I am, at least,
the last time you kissed me,
in your car,
as I thought about the night before,
and the morning,
when I woke up,
with the sun saying “hello” through small cracks in the blinds,
as I buried myself inside your arms.
I need to write something.
I’ll be in awful trouble if I don’t,
(I’m already in awful trouble, anyway,
so a part of me thinks “what’s a little more?”)
I need to write something.
My pen tries to pull me from fantasy,
but as usual,
I ignore the ink,
and do whatever I want,
falling back between my sheets,
dreaming of you,
doing whatever you want.
