Ghost | Writer

I stare at the white page blankly. It peers back expectantly. "So, write, then." it seems to accuse. 

But what to say? It's so clean and its blue lines shy between the bleached wool clouds like summer strips of sky. My mind is too cluttered and dirty to do justice to such a noble creature. How could I possibly assert my thoughts upon something as pristine as this virgin sheet?

The dry air crackles silently, raising my hairs to vigilance. My skin stands at attention; uneven rows of pink soldiers.  I feel his breath on my neck, warm and sensual as a sun-filled room where dust motes play in the beams, whispering softly before swirling away when I turnmy head.

I can almost feel his hand cover my own. I know it is fine, well-shaped, and manicured. His shirtsleeves are rolled halfway to his elbows. I look and see nothing but I know his hairs are soft and black.  How could I possibly be expected to write well or even poorly with such a sweet distraction radiating behind me.  This is no help at all and yet here I am, writing.

     "Very good. Keep going."

     "What? Who said?..."