Writers Jam

look out the window. pick at your nail polish. learn the digits on every license plate that pulls into the parking lot. look for the one that ends in 215. rinse and repeat. 

do your dreams ever end abruptly? mid-sentence. an infinite pause. 

it takes 6 folds to make a paper plane and about a full second to straighten it out. it will be 17 tries until you find a tear in the paper and ask for the menu. you can take your time flipping through it, and they still won’t ask if you’re waiting for someone. i wish they would. i would’ve told them.

its cold outside, but not the kind where i would have mistakenly forgotten to bring a jacket and you’d be there to offer yours and it’ll all make for a beautiful moment. its not that cold outside. and you aren’t here.

but you will be. of course. i order us some hot chocolate, hoping it grows on you. i tell the waitress you’ll be here any moment. she agrees. 

the sun is a certain shade of gloom now, the clock on the mantel doesn’t work but i know that an hour has passed. no one ever told me about the gentle violence that exists in leaving. but its always easier, right? there are back doors and side exits, escape routes, and sometimes a reason. 

and then its rarely about the fact that you left. its how you leave. no door slams, no screams. double ticks. unanswered calls. silence. 

i’ll have to leave too. the seat. a tip. two cups of hot chocolate (now cold), entirely untouched. 

i won’t be able to tell you how i made it to the airport. there’s a kid next to me. he wants to sit by the window, in my seat. they’re reading the safety instructions, i think. i’m not listening, and then i am. “locate the nearest exit, note that the nearest exit may be behind you, in case of any difficulty…” i plug in my earphones. 

do your dreams ever stop mid-thought, as if they remembered something you don’t?