You try to write, try to wrangle your brain into the right whimsy for words but the mornings were never your moment, never invited you to dive into the depths. You step around them, cautious, uninterested, unsure what to make of the swirls that lie silent in the corners of the room. Perhaps we are allowed to just wait it out. They say there's a storm coming, and you wonder if it could blanket your fever, silence what ails you. It's a big ask, and you know it.
Put the words away. This is not their moment.
Come back to them when darkness ignites your spark,
again.
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