The sun dies in the room when you block the window. I should have heard you come in, but I was writing a letter. Few things can disturb me in the mesmerisation of composition. It wasn’t so much the content, but the mantra of art. A writer who stops writing for anything else but more writing does not deserve to have written in the first place.
So when your shadow ate the light, I can’t be blamed for not having noticed. There wasn’t a choice. You know as much for I wrote as much.
I only stopped penning the letter when you stood above me. I had to turn on the lamp light in the room. Darkness is only conducive to a page when it fills it. With the hungry yellow rays, I continued. I’m not sure where you went next. But I do know that soon enough the room was soaked in summertime smiles and I could turn off the light. The letter was finished soon after. The page was a solid black.