Sitting by a window in a shelter of an unnamed winter evening,
I solicit words.
But they are slow in coming.
Writing, like love, cannot survive neglect.
But not neglect,
Deliberate act of abandonment.
Lovers who hide from love in pain or fear, soon
See it perish.
As do writers who hide from words.
Shrivel and wilt, scorched by salts of sorrow.
And so I think I should sit here,
Until I have enough
Words to describe
Slow hum of town living below my balcony,
Brilliant colours of geranium’s flowers spilling from terracotta pots nestled against the rusty balustrade,
Smell of sea mist dissolving over dove coloured hills,
Shapes of travelling clouds touched on the edges by a rose brush,
Sound black and white can makes when passing softly under a naked tree,
Taste of loneliness.
I might be waiting for a long time,
A day, or