I wait patiently for what they call, a writer’s block.
Words escape like overcooked noodles through a fork.
And metaphors like the one above, slip past unnoticed,
like the hour hand's movements. For days, I find myself
in an empty room. This room with perfect whitewashed walls,
Not one blemish or cobweb to stare at; infinitely long.
Not even the smell of fresh paint or varnish or a damp stain.
An old woman’s face. Her wrinkles smudged by seeping saltiness.
And then, the crack beneath the door fills up with darkness.
Words escape like overcooked noodles through a fork.
And metaphors like the one above, slip past unnoticed,
like the hour hand's movements. For days, I find myself
in an empty room. This room with perfect whitewashed walls,
Not one blemish or cobweb to stare at; infinitely long.
Not even the smell of fresh paint or varnish or a damp stain.
An old woman’s face. Her wrinkles smudged by seeping saltiness.
And then, the crack beneath the door fills up with darkness.
A scented envelope appears from under the door, unaddressed,
but by the time I open it, You would have been long gone
leaving behind words so exquisite, I could have never written them.
leaving behind words so exquisite, I could have never written them.
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