good morning, Belguim. (november)

they left. 
everyone
everyone
everyone
has left. 
i’m numb,
i can’t be sad anymore. 
the hiccuped tears
find their closure. 
in the deepest of subconscious knowings- 
isn’t this what i wanted? 
somehow, it just doesn’t feel
like what i wanted. 
the abandonment 
is the adhesive-
blinders on. 

november
dims the skies, 
for fairy lights
and other worldly realms. 
now is the time, 
to write the book. 

i begin.

one thousand. 
two thousand… words… 

time,
now measured
in cafe coffee cups,
daily word counts, 
and “what if i don’t finish” anxieties.

no no,
go deeper. 

you got this girl.

six thousand.. seven thousand.. 

they have my full attention:
a passerby, 
a poet, 
a blackbird, 
a grief, 
and me. 
no no, she- 
i mean. 
it’s fiction, my love.
it’s all fiction. 

thirteen thousand, 
fourteen, fifteen, sixteen thousand! 

i keep waiting.
anxiety builds on
mail boxes
deserted. 
no news, is
good news?
no news, is
no news? 
when i am meant to know, 
i will know. 
they don’t know.
i need time,
i am not ready.
when they are meant to know, 
they will know. 

again i slip
on vodka & gin. 
oh i said i’d stay sober..
i feel so ashamed, 
and no one notices. 
i feel relief
that no one notices. 
i rest
one soft palm
of compassion
onto my heart:
keep going girl, 
you’re doing good girl,
blinders darling, 
don’t let them slip off now. 

twenty-two darling, 
twenty-three.. 
almost half way.

i leave
the lemon, 
on the alter.
to reminds me.
what was lost. 
Bhaisajyaguru, 
i bow to you. 

i awaken
to hear 
my father calling, 
the mandolin’s song. 
is it monsoon
or a grief i keep denying myself?
for a man i never really knew? 

the tears won’t stop. 
they drop
onto off white pages
black ink osmosis.
i keep building
comfort
by make belief. 
“break down, 
if you must- 
and if you must- 
do it in your writing. 
you have a deadline.”

thirty-six, 
thirty-seven, thirty-eight thousand.. words…
i am 
so 
bloody tired. 
thirty-nine thousand.. 
but
i am.. 
forty thousand..
so 
forty-one thousand..
close.. 

i sense
a bubbling
of excitement, 
a restlessness. 
i have been studious
for so long.. 
i begin to crave
sparkle, 
laughs, 
to be seen. 
no no, not yet..

forty-two thousand.. forty-three….  

oh i am almost there.. 
i am approaching 
the finishing line, 
until a stranger interrupts
the deepest of creative contemplations. 
to remind me of what i have forgotten. 
“serendipity” and the intersections
of once parallel life lines, 
only when the time is right. 

oh.. no.. i’m too busy.. no.. 

i look at my word count.. 

fourty-nine thousand.. 

“surely you have time for one cup of coffee?” 

no, no, i don’t know. 

i look back, 
to what was lost. 
i can’t.. 
but then
i catch 
a breath in,
chinook winds
of anticipations. 
maybe..
maybe.. 
i am
ready? 

fifty thousand… 

fifty thousand words written, 

in the month of november.. 

i did it!

oh. 
that feels good. 
i curated it, 
they can’t take it.
it’s mine to keep. 
i feel
more 
and more
like me
again..

it feels so good,
i don’t even notice
the blinders
slipped off.

and i look up, 
to the man, 
so sure
of all that is.

“yeah.. sure.. i have time for a quick coffee.”