The morning of

Inspiration has been hard to find lately. Everything is hiding in plain sight, and nothing is left to the imagination. Everything becomes a distraction. She sits across from me. I tap the pencil against the table, watching her. It’s hard to stay quiet when your thoughts are so loud. She switches legs, crossing the right one over the left. I’m entranced, the pencil hangs in midair. The sudden silence causes her to look up at me. I can’t take my eyes off of that mustache of hers, drawn on with her favorite mascara. She pulls her hair to one side, then bounces her foot a couple of times before going back to her sketchbook. She sits there in my mind, a plain white t-shirt and a vinyl skirt. She strikes a match on the spine of her sketchbook, lighting me on fire. The match stick slowly burns, like a torch that lights the trail. Her favorite color is black, but my thoughts aren’t always so dark. Sometimes they’re grey, like a rainbow. She’s perfectly framed by the window behind her. The sun shining through is magnified by her eyes. They burn little holes, ending my sentences. I wonder what she’s up to, if she’s drawing conclusions. I take a break from my writing and look up, only to find that she has gone. In her place is a small book of matches, with a note inscribed on the flap. I read it and smile, as I am engulfed in flames.

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