Wednesday, 13 May 2015

Dear writer's block

Dear writer’s block,
It’s not you, it’s me. 
I know we had some really swell times together in the last few months, but hey, I have to confess; I haven’t been that much of a faithful lover.

I loved the lazy months when I could wake with you at 7am, and feast on the grandest of gourmets to my hearts delight. Then, entwined with you on the couch, I would stretch these long limbs gingerly on the expanse of your stocky chest and let you tickle me to endless distraction.
They were sweet; those days, yes. But through it all, there were those moments when you turned the corridor and I felt the tug on my imagination’s strings, albeit for the shortest of minutes. The times when I dared to dream that this studio apartment was an orchard, of exotic flowers and sweet fruits. And that we could stroll in this garden, hand in hand, lips entwined. Your tongue; a promise of cider. Your embrace; the faintest touch of cedar wood.

Okay, you got me. It wasn’t you I dreamed of, it was my muse.
I snuck my head out from under that blanket of languid rest, dared to look out the window and hear the faintest chirp of summer birds. And oh, what a sound!

I guess what I’m saying is this; winter is over, the migrant bird has returned home to roost. And I, proud lover, singer of exotic songs and lustful chirrups; I have swooned in the heady attraction of an imagination set free to take on form. My fingers itch to spin tales and verses in celebration of my lover for all time. My muse for all times beckons and I cannot find the nerve to pause, or to say no.
Don’t miss me; because I’m glad to lose you.


Iquo D. 

Photo credit: Google