01:37

This is a first, and an opportunity I can’t let just be an “opportunity”.  Writing through it, even have coffee in concert with the writer.

Nurse called in, and as she works so doth the writer.

Thoughts in head, probably overthought if I had to be honest.  So I write through it… not listening to any negative.  Writing to my own Beat and poetics.

What am I feeling now… like, I’m not with a topic.  So I assign myself one.  What… the coffee, the moment, the simplicity and complex nature of just me and this cup, at the weirdest fucking hour.

I got nothing… I look at the cup like it’s supposed to help.  Give me a noun, at least.  Something.  Bastard…

Coffee offers no comment, no counsel.  It’s probably mad, or at the very least annoyed with me.  Don’t blame it.  I poured her in a fucking Shakespeare cup.

……..

Funny, the things a writer will step over looking for something to write.

Start with how much I miss her.  Already.

How ridiculous and lovely that is.  Or the little ring the cup has left beside the notebook, on the desk she bought me a couple years ago… which I’ll wipe up later, probably after setting the cup directly in it again.

There.  A topic.  My considerable talent for making the same mess twice.

Laugh, and the sentence comes easier.

She’ll ask what I did while she was working.

“Wrote a little.”

“About what?” I imagine her saying, getting into bed.

I take another sip, imagining her face while I try to explain.