A dusty unfinished novella, sitting unloved on my desktop,
Awaits the pause of the cursor, the little feedback high
It gets from a click to open.
Waiting patiently for the cursor to reopen it,
As its ideas gather dust in my mind.
Sometimes, the cursor might hover over it for a moment,
And it will feel loved,
And hopeful for its life to be continued, and fleshed-out.
But its hopes are dashed against the rocky cliff of time,
As memories of plot and characters fade until,
One day, it gets selected again.