illusion

the fear of writing is overwhelming now.
with every moment like daring
  the keys beneath me.
i cursor left and edge a sharp deletion;
"no, what a tiresome thing."

i squint towards absentee grit on a whim,
and count the number of years.
it's been six.
  (6),
and six too many.
have i bled my color all wrong?

my fingers are heavy.
i have no posits to share.
and so, none will be spoken.