I stare at the screen.

My curser blinks on an empty word document 

and I feel my mind rumble in frustration.

Today the words will not come.

Instead, I have a never-ending stream of consciousness,

so unlike the blank, empty screen that mocks me.

 

But no words come and I close my laptop 

in favor of staring into the warm black of the night.

 

No stars are out tonight. 

The only light comes from far off street lights.

Great wisps of dark clouds smother the void above my head. 

 

I hum a nameless melody and turn back to my closed computer. 

My room's light is bright drowns the warm darkness behind me. 

I am torn between the two.

I remember the sound of pencil on paper 

as I rub old callouses on the left side of 

my middle finger. 

Now it is my fingertips that are rough,

the palms of my hands soft and pliable. 

 

I wish I could squeeze the right words out of them. 

Though it is a craft, hands do not do the work for this artwork.

Instead, I curse myself silently before turning off the lights.

I curl into myself in bed.

The last thing I see before sleep engulfs me is the clouds parting,

the sky illuminated by a shy moon. 

 

Maybe tomorrow, with daybreak, 

the words will expose themselves in a sly smile

as the moon had.

 

I hope so. 

 

I need it.