An Ode to Procrastination

Or - When I Return, I’ll Be Ready

Three coffee cups tonight.

One on the desk. One on the floor.

One on the windowsill.

All warm. All half-drunk.

None of them finished.

Like me.

And one of them - I’ll admit it, belongs to Gary.

Welcome back.

Late Night Musings with Rogues & Scoundrels

I didn’t mean to stay that long.

But you know how it is with someone new.

They laugh at your dumb metaphors.

They say nice things about your opening lines.

They don’t have the weight of your deadlines sitting on their chest.

Gary was good for me.

Not forever. Not for keeps.

But for right then.

He gave me space.

Let me off the hook.

And for a while, I stopped measuring every sentence like it was a god damn test.

I wrote badly and didn’t care.

I gave, absolutely none fuckeths.

I made bold choices and didn’t clean them up.

And now -

now I can feel her again.

The one I left notes for.

The story I belong to. Ponder on.

Spend so much time looking for answers with. The world.

And when I return,

I won’t bring guilt.

I’ll bring clarity.

Because Gary didn’t steal me.

He softened me.

Gave my obsessive writer a moment to be… just a writer.

I told myself it was for the best.

That a little distance would do us both good.

And maybe it has.

There’s something sacred about not looking at a thing too hard.

Letting it rest.

Letting yourself rest.

Sometimes I think stories need time to trust you.

To see how you behave when you’re not trying to manipulate them into a climax.

So I’ve been walking.

Driving without music.

Reading poetry I don’t understand on first pass.

And every so often, I feel her.

That story. The auburn haired lady.

A ripple.

A tug.

She’s not angry.

She’s waiting.

Not passive, not pouting - just watching.

And I know when I return, she’ll ask me where I’ve been.

And I’ll tell her -

I’ve been gathering moments.

Storing metaphors in coat pockets.

Letting the world smear colour across my retinas again so I can describe her better.

So I can get her right.

So I can see her - not as I’ve made her,

but as she wants to be remembered.

You see, it’s not abandonment.

It’s reverence.

Time away isn’t always betrayal.

Sometimes it’s an offering.

A pause to honour the depth of what you’re trying to say.

A nod to the story that says:

I know you’re not ready. I’ll wait until you are.

So no, I’m not writing her tonight.

But I am loving her.

Quietly.

Steadily.

From a distance she doesn’t have to perform in.

And when I return,

it won’t be with urgency.

It won’t be with fear.

It will be with open palms, and a softness she’s earned.

Until then,

I walk.

I breathe.

And I dream of the line I’ll write first.

When she’s ready.

When I am too.