I want to be disappointed, but I am not surprised — and for that alone I am disappointed. Feeling let down by my own inability to finish something when it’s due, when it’s something I wanted for myself, not for anyone else. My brain screams for words to put on paper.

(The yellow line blinks at me in anticipation. Wishing something somewhere could fill in the gaps of what my tongue struggles to complete.)

Convincing myself that it’s okay, what matters is that I’m still finishing this, that my notes are perpetually open, that the wind still whispers poetry in the curve of my ear.

The sun rises and sets and December rolls in faster than I could have anticipated. I tell myself ‘fuck it’ — sometimes, things don’t have to be so deep to write.