i wake up to your sunday early morning poetries, the nameless red flowers at your feet. The tapping of pencils and scribbling of erasers, devoid of cliches you try to write. a bent figure, it’s still dark outside, surrounded by sharpened remains of pencils. you seem to think of letters as lost souls, waiting to be brought together. a whip of wind passes by and the rustling of leaves distracts you from the half empty paper, you look around and gently scoop up the sharpened pencil leaves and drop them into the empty teacup. a half-hearted sigh escapes your lips as you glance at the now half-full paper. metaphors surround you, and your hands shake in excitement. everything is there, the notebook is in your lap and the pencil is in your hand, you hold it in three different ways before finally deciding on the second one. you flip to a fresh page and there again is a bent figure, you, trying to write and the sound of scribbling is soon heard, followed by a sigh and then silence. sadness fills my heart as i realize, you’ve yet again stopped. the lack of mess beside me is another reminder of how you must have spent the night with bunched up shoulders and a, now, chargeless laptop. a starfished figure lies on the floor, arms spread and limbs apart; a walrus wail escapes the said figure’s mouth. the red flowers now rest upon your heart, eyes closed and fists clenched. the floor feels chilly even through my sock covered feet trailing across. the flowers are replaced with my head and a pair of intertwined hands, careful words are exchanged and an hour and a half remain till dawn; we both fall asleep to your dejected inspirations. tomorrow will be better, don’t you worry
writers have been giving birth to stories, long before we came along.
(i dont know what this is.. i wrote this around 4am and it just gives me a very happy vibe i dont know sorry)