Not blocked. Waiting. Nearly identical.
I came to Starbuck’s end of last summer. Early evenings, my time to write. I was on assignment. Thirty posts in thirty days. Try. Revise, rest, get feedback, revise again, publish. Time bent for my efforts.
Today I look at the clock and wonder. Has procrastination settled here, next to my truck keys, our plans, a gentle ache sighing, “Open your eyes, you are about to see America.”
Thirty again, in as many days, I must write down the moment, and anything else settling in with a face. I break the silence, lean in to catch whispers, get it down imperfectly.
She is a ballerina behind closed doors.