The Writer Is The Block

You said I was eloquent.

But in the third year,
you decided to go through my journals,
while I was at work.

You pressed me on many details,
possessed by an unnecessary jealously.

Sketches long before us.
Non-fiction.
Fantasies.
Song lyrics.
Script ideas.

I was very lonely for a stretch of time.

Early days of the internet,
timed to one hour at the local library.

Many notebooks.

That day,
I severed the dreamer
and adopted a censor.

*     *     *     *     *

Ten years in,
how things have changed.

The early days of parenthood,
have led us to a different kind of edge.

A full schedule,
and little time for artful meditations.

Each of us claw for a quick escape,
alternate nights,
rarely together.

We live perpetuated myths,
akin to the sexless middle-aged couples
that we once giggled about in restaurants.

My early surrender was a choice.
I see that now.

I willingly conceded.

But in this isolation,
my nostalgic melancholy,
I can see my way back.

And my censor is getting the boot.