ode from a writer

It’s true I’m quite besotted:
I want to stroke you, sniff you even
happiest when I’m scribbling on you,
spilling coffee on occasion
but you don’t seem to mind.

I get grumpy when we’re divided –
hear you calling in the middle of the night
when I’m just too sleepy to get up
and in the morning cannot remember
exactly what it was I wanted to say to you.

You and me, in our tight huddle
may draw occasional curious glances,
I don’t care if you’re all over my table
that’s just the way I like you.
You are my addiction.

What can I say of my dilemma?
My eccentricity, my love, my vice?
My temptation, vocation, adoration?
Others don’t know what to make of it:
the writer and her manuscript.

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