It Can Wait

I lie and wait for inspiration in this sun bathed attic confessional. Tiny miracles of flight sing outside my window, a beautiful break in the silence of early morning hangovers. Contentment is impossible with a mind this full, and I’m raging inside this still room – memories of seconds, made of eternities in glances. I pray for the day I will find inspiration in other’s eyes.

This pathetic kindergarten infatuation propelled by unplanned moments of absolute abandon between sheets in patched walled basement rooms is proving too much. He is the most unwelcome muse imaginable, making it impossible to share the only worthwhile endeavors into our art because absurd devotion, written explicit, is too honest for a Sunday morning.

The leaves shivering in the breeze outside my window beckon me from my cradle of solitude. Tonight is looming before me – my first half hearted attempt of finding something new – in something old – is exhausting. There will be laughter and flirtation no doubt. A brush here, a sigh there, leading him to believe I’m the kind of girl, twelve years junior, that wants nothing more than a silver fox substitute for legitimate attraction to buy her Coach and rail her senseless. I might be cliché, but I’m not that girl.

I feel the sun will not wait a moment longer. I have all day to write. But as I sit up, three hundred words changes nothing and the weight of sighs and undefined past moments is proving too heavy for this room, and this girl, and this house. Having everywhere to go, yet no desire to leave I lay back down. And simply open a window.

5/10/09