I've been writing snippets of poetry, things that aren't quite fully realized but that need to be recorded.
Things like this:
And when she comes to it,
She'll know it's the end.
No bells; no party.
Just a quiet slipping between the sheets.
I've felt the vague urge to write poetry lately, like there is someting pushing its way up from my subconscious like a whale beneath a frozen ocean. And as far as this metaphor goes, I'm sitting on top going, "Whoa...it feels a litle rumbly..." And then not being able to express it any more creatively than that.
I think it's there. I just have to prime the pump. It's been so long.
And they're all about her. All my snippets, about some random girl (perhaps the girl in the green dress--or was it a coat--that sometimes come through my peripheral imagination?). My muse? I don't know. All I do know is that she's gotten on a bus and had all eyes on her for a second. Some, longer. And she walks.
The first moments of silence.
7 hours ago