My poetry continues this night’s summation scene, alongside a Super Tuscan. Not really tired anymore. Thinking of my wine bar. It’s music, color of the walls, type of wines I’d carry, beer, apps, color of the tables, booths. Hard to convey such a vision. Wanting rain. Want to hear it, with her. Miss my character. My blend of a novel, featuring a seductively subtle varietal.
Mike closed his laptop, stared at the lamp’s light. He knew that if his sessions was halted, his creative waves would still, cease. So he just typed. About her. Kelly wasn’t there, in the room. But she was there. With him. He could smell her peach-noted lotion, see her deeply nightish nail polish. It made him sad, such entertainments. He stopped, hating himself for it.