Too many drafts and nothing itching for completion; maybe this is nature's way of telling me it's time for beginnings. I find myself adding to the work-in-progress total, spiting what is natural like the lack of snow in December. Weather may be inevitable, but I'm fighting its increasing layers. My creativity is caught up in creation; new beginnings should know they'll need a number. I think of you nightly -daily- I confess. I care. Cryptic and honest pens find their most fruitful battles here. You'll know what you're looking to take from it all.
I'll get these endings written, but the story between then and what's begun is worth delaying a finished project. I'll muster the courage one of these days unless you find it in you to beat me to the punch. This morning, I spit your name like a profanity. Tonight, I whispered it for shame in still giving it a home. Now it and I both need to sleep sound.
It'd be an honor to know you.
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