Tapping keys are the only sound
as I sit, cold and tired
in the lab. The only light
is from lit screens
packed in compact rows.

The computer lab workers
Haven’t turned on the lights,
though it’s dark enough.

My keys tap insistently as I reach
for the tale that forces from my mind; seeping
through the almost bleeding sores on my fingertips.

I count the words, not
that length matters,
Unless I were aiming
for a certain goal.

The sounds and feelings; these words, phrases
are what I sweat over, while late night strangers
watch the rabid twitching of my fingers on keys
that only lasts a moment before subsiding to silence.

This winter is cold; frost
Bites the windows. I see ice,
and it freezes my fingertips.

The ending gnaws at my nerves again, tweaking my thumbs
over the spacebar. In front of me, the words appear;
Letters, sounds, feelings in blank white space. My story.

My plot sits in perfect form.
And yet, I have so much left.
I will write this story again.

I will toil again,
On another cold night,
passion urging me
to hurry. My hands will ache
With carnal need,
straining for the end

that won’t be an end at all,
but only the beginning
Of some long ass revisions.