Forgetting the stories I’ve told

Some days, putting away type feels like a chore; other days, it’s a meditation, a welcome separation from the rest of the things that clutter the mind and heart. All the little words, little sentences, melt away from the stories they told. One at a time, tiny lead forms drop into their slots, waiting to be a part of words for someone else’s poem. For this hour or two, I’ll forget the world, its etiquettes, and the stories I’ve told, and simply mind my p’s and q’s.