To the Lit gods...

There are crumpled papers on the wastebasket. Tattered pages scattered all over the floor. The pen waits. And I'm sitting here, staring blankly across space. The monotonous creaking of the ceiling fan are jumbled notes that adds up to the disheveled feel of my messy room.

The clock's hand completed its route for the seventy-seventh time. See? I've been counting. I've been waiting...

Waiting for the words to come.

I remember before, they would come to me on unearthly hours. Crooning me to sleep. Or sometimes, jerking me awake from the comforts of my slumber. Time and time again, they would wait until early dawn. When the spilt ink of the night sky streams back to the impalpable flask where it came from. Sometimes, they ride along the back of golden sunbeams and would come knocking on my window pane.

They've been doing that for fifteen summers. Where are they now?

I'm wondering...

Maybe they grew tired. They grew tired from our little trysts. Sudden trysts. Over cups of coffee and sprawled pillows. They grew tired of the rainy afternoons, boring Sundays, faked smiles, and teardrops. Maybe they are tired of being etched emotions. Mostly of frustrations and melancholy.

I'm still waiting...

Tell them I would change the color of my pillowcase. I would play happy tunes on my guitar. I would keep the windows open. I'll be waiting for them to come back. Tell them I'd be happy. Or at least, I'll try.

Tell them, I'll wait. Please.