Perhaps I wouldn’t write if my mouth lubricated itself during times I need it the most.
Like when I stopped her at the door. Onlookers impatiently observing the distance between us and the door. Me trying to fit words into the most loaded minute.
The minute between her and the door.
The struggle of fitting words into a perpetually shutting clamp. Perhaps I wouldn’t write if I could form sentences then.
fahad baseer 