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If the writer wrote yesterday

If the writer wrote yesterday, he would have spoken of roses and petals. He would have missed the thorns and thistles. If the writer sat down with his quilt and ink bottle, he would not have included the blank chapters, the torn hearts and clammy hands. He would have spoken of the glorious process of falling into love but not the shameful one of falling out. He would have written about the shiny eyes and white smile but he should wait. He should sit still and watch for the picture could change tomorrow. He should be patient and watch the signs, for if the writer wrote yesterday, he would have missed the cracks and the fissures. He would not have seen hair torn off heads and wails filling the night like a lone coyote. He would not have seen them when the curtains fell and exposed their nakedness. Wait, writer, and when time is right you shall write the story, of love found and lost among rocks. Be patient, and you shall rewrite the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet. Wait till the moon is full and huge, and pretty turns to wolf. Wait till the eclipse forms and the hounds bay for blood. Wait till the tap of infatuation runs dry, then you can take your pen and the tattered piece of paper then put it all down. Wait, write not till the prayers turn from those of love to those of tolerance. Wait till the soft alto of romantic songs turn into the drawls of a tired drunk. If you wrote yesterday, you would have missed the man drunk in love sobering up and the blind regaining his sight. You would not have captured her losing her mind. If you wrote yesterday, you wouldn’t have heard the raspy voices of the orphaned lover calling into the night. It is good you waited today, for once her lust was quenched she walked away. They would have made it to a fairytale if you wrote yesterday but sit down now, and write their tragedy. Make sure the women audience cry and men look away. Put your best in pen and paper and make sure it sells as the best. Wait till today or tomorrow, when the dust sobers around the galloping horses so you can have a clear view of its rump. Wait till the white clothes turn grey with ash and sorrow, then sit down with your pen and paper clips, and write all about them, hopeless romantics who loved and lost. I will find you writer, and make you write yesterday, for the story shall grow stale if you write it not today.

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