She just can't write
A blank page stares back at her from top of her desk. She is pen in hand, ready to go, but words refuse to flow, and ideas that just a while ago seemed so worthy of a line melt into her many thoughts, slipping by her troubled mind. What had he done to her, he with his golden words, that so tenderly touched and sweetly awoke in her everything she thought was lost. Who is he, he who she does not know and yet knows so well. She sits by the porch light and watches a moth do its death dance coming... Sign in to see full entry.