Give me solitude.
In fact, serve it to me on a silver platter-
I’ll gladly be the woman alone at the bar
with nothing but a pen and paper and my imagination
to keep me company.
I’ll gladly let you mistake my pleasure
for sadness
so long as the silence isn’t broken
and I can remain in this sacred space
with lady inspiration
a little while longer.
He holds my hand as I try to write, his fingertips interlaced with mine as if to quietly reassure me he’s right here, supporting me in doing what I need to do and being who I need to be today: a writer on a slow Sunday morning with no plans.
This is what romance looks like to me these days.
maybe this virus
my body has been fighting
is also attacking my mind
no words have come to me lately
no morsel of inspiration
has been ingested in days
my bones feels weak and
my heart depleted-
when a writer gets sick
creativity goes on bed rest.
cross legged on the floor writing
as he reads a hardcover I brought him
music fills the space between us and
the scent of citrus permeates the air
today we have no schedule
if we wanted to we could take a nap
in the middle of the afternoon
and wake up without an alarm clock
shaking our dreams so callously
back to reality
if we wanted to we could build a fort and have popcorn and wine for dinner
and watch Netflix until our eyes overcame with sleep
but instead we are
here.
in the sweet comfort and mutual understanding and
respect for our needs.
I’ve been so exhausted I haven’t had energy
to pay lady inspiration a visit lately
and he knows this.
so he lays with a book in hand and I sprawl
all my pens and journals on the living room carpet
and kindly ask creativity
to join me for a writing date.
And up above I can almost see love smiling down on us proudly
vaguely remembering the days
we swore off
commitment
for good.
“write something worthwhile.”
my brain demanded
“stop ordering me around.”
answered my heart
and the only part of me
doing anything of value
was my right hand
who didn’t say a word
and just kept
writing.
