Breathless

Frank Leigh Dearie was often breathless. He was not a man who would commonly wait for poems, or for a woman to call (or a man for that matter). But he was never the same after Piccadilly. He was breathless with anticipation all the time.

O, Picadilly, he sighed into the empty room. He took a swig of his Macallan and and sighed again.

I walked across the room towards the table. I could feel his eyes on me, even as he typed. Wss he writing about me. Was he writing about us? About our fights and passions? About our love making? Who is he speaking to, why?

Maybe he is not writing about me at all. He watches me to make sure I am not looking, that I cannot see. Does he watch out of guilt?

Has he said anything about me here? I know he comes here to read and write. To assoziate.

What does it mean to be somebody's inspiration? What can you do with that power? What do the words they write about do to you?

Will I be followed as I walk through here, looking for answers?

Help me please.

Help me find myself

i am here in this moment, waiting, the computer in front of me is whirring, the cat comes in through the cat flap and it swings shut, tack, tack, tack, tack, tack, the clock ticks, and my clothes rustle as I my hands move to type this. oh, tell me soon what you think of me my love, and where will go tomorrow. Will we be friends forever, can our joy out live the inevitable sorrow, of loss. Could I bear to lose you. Can we be apart. I am breathless in anticipation. Breathless in my love.