I sit. Lost and composed at the same time. Both my feet are ice-cold and my finger-tips jitter slightly as I tap the keys. It is not the first time either.
I sit as words beautiful and not, walk in and out of my mind. I wanted to write, but I am holding myself too tight. I find myself too cautious, too protective to be able to write. I lack the sweet abandon.
Time has never stood so still as it stands now. Separated from me. Perhaps in wait; for me to take notice. One glance and I feign how cheeky I can be, even as my heart races, afraid I will miss the bus.