Every time I sit down to write, I hear something inside. It tells me words. It tells me rhymes. I listen.
But I can’t seem to repeat. I’m just staring vacantly.
Somewhere along the way, my inspiration left this place.
Creativity has become on demand. A project. A quote. Something that needs to have meaning, to have reason. Not for fun. Not for me.
For someone else.
I think I’ll keep it all inside for awhile. Maybe when I hear sweet things whispered to me, I’ll find a way to let things flow. Until then, I’ll stare vacantly, not saying a word. And let the things I deserve reach my skin.
I dreamt that you had been long passed away somewhere in the forever-gray backing of my mind. I’d write you postcards everywhere I went. My favorite was from the Castle in Ireland that your ancestors built. You’re why I went there. I wrote ‘Wish you were here’ on the back of a postcard and I mailed it to you.
I answered my phone and it was the man who lives at the house now. He said in a bewildered and stern voice ‘you know this person hasn’t lived here in several years, right?’
“6 years actually”
‘….then why do you keep sending letters here?’
“Because it’s the house my wife and I were married in. And every time I miss her, I write her a letter and send it to that house hoping that somehow she’d reach into the mailbox and take it wherever she is.”
There was a long silence. And then the dial tone.