I opened the drawer

I opened the drawer.

Was looking for something else.

Found the notebook.

Half-finished. Started so many times.

The first page has five beginnings.

Five attempts at the opening.

Five crossed-out tries

at saying something true.

I can read my own indecision

in the scratched-out lines.

Each one was close.

Each one was almost right.

Each one I abandoned

because the next word didn't come,

because the line felt forced,

because I knew what needed to happen next

but couldn't make myself write it.

So I read what I have.

Again.

The familiar words.

The familiar dead-end.

The place where I always stop.

I think: maybe this time.

I think: maybe I can push through.

I think: maybe the next line is just waiting

on the other side of this silence.

But the pen stays in the drawer.

The page stays half-finished.

The thought stays unfinished.

I know what comes next.

I know exactly what the next paragraph should be.

I can see it clearly.

I just can't write it.

Can't make my hand move.

Can't make the words land.

Can't push past this particular fear

into whatever comes after.

So the notebook stays half-done.

The dog-eared page marks

the place where I always stop.

The pen marks show

how many times I've tried.

The blank space shows

how many times I've failed.

I close the notebook.

Put it back in the drawer.

Maybe next month.

Maybe next year.

Maybe I'll finally push through.

But probably not.