I reach out and touch
Only to grab air.
I miss him so much
But he is not there.
Resides not in sorrow
Nor is he by Crystal Tears
Guess our time was borrowed
Without him consumed with fear
I search lovingly the drapes
I fly out and scan the lake
I hold bitterness sour grapes
Does he knows how my heart aches?
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A heathen conceivably, but not, I hope, an unenlightened one
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I am a writer who often dawdles (wastes time). So here I am, procrastinating by talking about organization, writing tips, teaching writing tips, and other random things to keep up my writing habits, when I should be writing my novel, and here you are, dawdling as well. C'mon in and join me for some dawdling (and pretending we're not).
