A Writer on Any Given Sunday

Photo by Plush Design Studio on Unsplash

Wake, and …
Suspicion creeps down my neck.
Not a thinking day. No!
A lark day.
A play day.
A crawl back in bed and mess around day.
Chores, wait till tomorrow.
Hobbies, paint yourself.
Writers deserve days off.
Right?
No stress.
No worries.
Hakuna ma watch-u-ma-call-it
And all that jazz.
So what if …
I left a character
A breath from death
No clue how to live.
An alien shadow
Outside of time
Creeping through the pores in his skin.
I stopped yesterday, not knowing how to save him.
Should I kill him?
Why not?
Abel Ruse, not real.
Not breathing, hoping,
I know what color of underwear he wears.
I know he has the hots for Gaia,
And thinks he is in love.
Not old enough to know
Love from lust?
Or is there a difference.
And he’s changing.
Oh, my!
And the change scares him
More than the knife
Literally at his throat.
How can I desert someone
Living in my head for months
When I know his hopes, dreams,
That his frozen thought
“What color of panties does Gaia wear?”
Not knowing if he will ever know.
Because real people never know
Until the knife at their throat
Cuts.
And then, nothing…

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