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.
Sincerely,
Iquo D.
Photo credit: Google
Photo credit: Google
