The juice supplying creativity amounts to barely a drop; if served in a saucer, a mouse would say, “What kind of restaurant is this?” and then throw it to the floor.
Not enough for the smallest vermin, not enough for me.
The heater sounds like someone’s holding a note far past their lung’s capacity. I wax and wane, stealing Peter to pay Paul for words on layaway.
He’s a smoky man, like swirls of souls that vent after a night’s frost. If I touched him, this Marlboro-type man that’s a nod to simpler times, he’d disappear. I let him stand at the corner of the railing; his breaths string like notes into the air. He’s focused on a thought, a place in the distance, the feel of the air’s chill. Something. I can’t say what. He takes a puff and sends out a cloud. I want to touch him, but he’s behind glass, a wax figurine that’s not real. Never was.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 