Trying to Write a Novel

Farewell, my lovely

said Dahlia, holding a bouquet.

And every sentence was a fresh start

But all that was coming out was poetry

Some elusive vomit of communication

Michael replied

I won't forget you- not till

the Earth stops hurtling around the Sun

Sun-days after

Saturdays after

yesterday

Now he wasn't making sense anymore

A haystack of thoughts

There was no plot.

I just thought I'd start writing

Drinking coffee

Checking facebook

Listening to all these voices around me, a

chaotic storyline called dinner (because I'm sitting in a

diner) (trying to be a writer)

Really!

(I am)

Phone call.

And in the moments of distraction, I missed it.

Michael left.

Dahlia opened a Southwestern restaurant. On Christmas

she thought of him

and he smelled flowers as he stared at the fire.