My Book

 

Every day

A new page

Is added

And written so

Meticulously so that

Every breath

And every blink

And sigh

Is recorded effortlessly.

The narrator’s voice

Is low and sultry

A voice unlike my own

Or any woman

I have met.

I hear it all day long

In my head

The tap-tap-tapping

Of the typewriter

And the sound of

The voice I have learned

To love

And hate.

Every twist and turn

Is added

Every dull day

Is tapped away.

Sometimes I grow angry

Or anxious

Or furious

Or sad beyond belief

With the book that’s being written.

I grow so desperate

That I turn my face

Up to

The sky

Towards the narrator

And shout, “What am I

To do now?”

I wait for an answer.

She then shouts down,

“How the hell am I

Supposed to know?

It’s YOUR book!”

Epiphany.