Sometimes the Words are not There

Sometimes the words are not there, waiting as usual for you to stumble out of the morning to meet them. The place where they usually wait for you is empty, deserted, only the wind is there, playing with the scraps of discarded paper you left behind last time, when there were so many words you left with your hands and pockets full, leaving a trail of dropped words all the way back to that tired old seat in front of your desk.

You sat there- grinning like a politician seeking a mandate – as you looked down on that spilling heap of words you had set down on your desk. Such a bountiful harvest, you didn’t know what to do with them all. You thought you would have more than you would ever need.

You were wrong.

You used up so many words, telling every woman you met how much you loved them, telling an indifferent world how it could learn to save itself, telling strange stories to those who sat with too much time hanging heavy in their hands.

Now, all your words are gone, and now you know what it is like to be alone and to have nothing left to say.