Neglect

My hands travel across familiar keys and my mind sinks into this familiar page as it sings apologies to the non-existent spirit that lives in its backdrop and in each letter and each pixel. It stays still, unresponsive but I know it will accept this gift of words, my offering, my plea for forgiveness. Still, I feel the flush fingers of guilt creeping up my back to circle my neck and force penance for my neglect.

But they ask no reason. They pray no explanation for the absence of my phrases.

I beg and crawl and beseech them to let me tell all, to let me draw the map causes and consequences. But they are not open to my voice.

Instead, they tap their nails on my skin and they wait for their message to sink in.

Post-haste

Eyes flicker, moving, roving, creeping across the type in an attempt to decipher the meaning and hold it hostage in the halls of remembrance - cells of remembrance. So small that there's no room wriggle or move or spread into a greater knowledge. It slips out the way it came.

The mind-fingers clasp and tug and cling to those flittering thoughts as they butterfly out of it's grasp - the caged bird is freed more easily than it is caught. With a sigh the eyes close and the mouth swallows. It stings and pounds and the words laugh from the white below.

There is no time.

Tomorrow waits with its claws out and sharpened and it grins - a grin that knows, a grin that taunts. There is no time.