I’m sitting in my favourite spot on the couch, pressing my pen to a blank page, hoping that my heart will overflow its pain and allow mere words to lay it out.
My pen falls silent.
I must have woken up quickly this morning, because thoughts and feelings from last night’s dreams keep mixing with the seconds that now try to pass before me.
I can smell the well-seasoned pork chops cooking in the oven, and my stomach anticipates the savoury goodness of their succulent juices. But perhaps I shouldn’t think about succulent juices, as I have just come from church.
A sip of white wine flows over the lip of my glass and across my tongue, promising to numb the feelings I am now not willing to see spilled on this page.
Sips spill cold and dry down my throat, and my mind smiles at the affects this liquid exudes. The hour draws a blank hand across my eyes, as they close in sleep. And once again my pen remains silent.
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