Writing by the speed of thought; Another 9min 45sec gone

By Mooky Blaylock

She lies naked in the bed
thumbing through the pages.
God only knows what she must be thinking right now.
Reading that manuscript of crazy.
Damnit, I wish we didn't just have sex.
It just makes this kind of situation so much more arduous.

I wish I didn't tell her
in my moment of weakness,
about toying with that stupid idea,
of writing that stupid book.
Now she must think I consider myself a writer.
Reading and probing each word.
Undoubtedly making assumptions.
Having opinions.
Comparing it to whatever she may consider to be good writing.
The silence tells me that she is not impressed.

It is nice feeling this breeze
blowing in through the open door
touching over my naked skin.
Like a warm, humid, breath
from that seasonal temptress called Summer Night.
Teasing me
with that wet smell of rain.
Faint and distant.
Out of reach.
Out of touch.

A strike of a match
sounds the end of this invasive torture.
The smell that's carried by the cloud of smoke
indicates she has found the weed
that I had stashed in my old typewriter.
I still keep my back to the bed.
Staring out at the night sky.
The moon allows only strips of light.
I light my smoke
and drink my wine.

She gets up.
Scratches around in the dark.
I turn around.
Her buttocks exquisitely shaping the shadows.
I feel ashamed.
I feel sorry that the bedazzlement in this evening,
could have been lost to a few letters on a page
written in confusion.
I decide it best to keep out of this.
I'll rather keep to the moon.
At least we've known each other long enough.

And here I thought,
that tonight maybe,
I could make someone feel special.
For her to see the abounding appreciation,
her beauty procures.
A celebration of her, the person;
For every woman lives to be seen...
Even if,
for just a night.

But instead...

I came to stand
Face to Face
and Toe to Toe.
Surprised by
the passenger of darkness.
Who lies dormant for;
and Weeks,
and Months,
or even Years.
But will arise when you least expect it.
And when it does,
it shows you the reflection
of something hollow and empty.

And so I still find myself standing
with the breath breeze of hell.
Touching my naked skin.
A hollow shell of man,
doesn't even shatter,
as the front door slams.

The End

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