I have not written a thing
for a moment
and sometimes I am afraid that the magical recipes that brew in my head
will get bored of me always saying, "Not now" and " this is not convenient"
and "I love you but later" and "we will see" and "I should do this other thing because this is not realistic"
and they will scowl
and grimace
and sob
and quietly or turbulently exit my mind.

Much. Like. You.