mojo

It seems of late I’ve lost my mojo. I had no idea the declaration of my sin--the taking of a bedfellow, to Insomnia would cause so much damage to our relationship. Everything is topsy-turvy around the hiz-house, and I’m none too pleased. The hard lesson learned: be careful what you wish for. Though I only asked for brief relief, and I’m quoting verbatim. Mr. Nocturnal and I no longer share the same sofa and Insomnia won’t even glance my way. As a result, I’ve lost my mojo, my words, the very thing that pulses through me, that maintains…me. So I sit and stare at you blank screen, we’ve done our thing before, and inspiration undulates…but it’s not enough. 9:57. Tick. 9:58. Tock. I hear you. It is early. I will wait for you if I must...

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She opened her eyes to the darkness falling and heard the faint whirring motor at her feet. He felt her stirring and clumsily climbed up the middle line of her legs, then her chest, and plopped himself down right under her nose and nuzzled himself in the crook of her neck. She snickered and moved her head to the side, itching her nose from the tickle of his whiskers, and placed her hand on his body, petting him only once before drifting back asleep. What seemed like moments later, he began to grow restless. He tried curling up by her side, almost in a perfect circle, and then sprawled on his back all the way at the edge of the bed again.  But he wasn’t comfortable or tired. He had slept long enough. And just then, his ears perked, sensing someone was coming, could hear footsteps on the the stairs. 

"What is it Wrinkle?" She said startled.