I sit forlornly staring at the blank page.
The words
(which had been my dinner guests
and filled the dining hall with noisy laughter)
have taken the last flight to Durban
and left this vacant space.
The void defies me to write,
scribble,
record —
anything, everything, one thing.

I draw lines through unfinished lines
and try to remember what my visitors looked like.
Loud and round,
short and silly,
hairy and uninhibited,
and grandly verbose.

Lyrics bounced around the room
not hours before,

but now —
all is silent.

The sudden purr of the fridge
lulls my heavy lids to close
and I resign myself to sleep,
stumble to my bed
and mutter, “Tomorrow.
I’ll write those words
tomorrow.”

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