Write the Words, She Says

Somewhere, between here and there, we stand.

Lost in human folly, forgotten in a moment’s rain, we stand. Longing, wanting, devoured by a certain kind of thirst, we stand. Playing humble amongst the trees, seeking a path to where we are, pretending we don’t know yet feeling all but certain, we stand.

“Write the words,” she says. 

I’ve written them, a million times. Has she not seen them? Has she not knelt at the altar of our dreams, gazed at the same sky, and called out my name? Has she not felt the tingle on her skin and let out the gasps of a moment’s truth?

Perhaps I’m standing in solitude, this feeling a part of me alone not shared by the stars above. Perhaps I walk a lonely path, the sweet nectar found in the mere mention of her name something I, alone, can taste. Perhaps I am a man of folly, prone to a jester’s arrow bent slightly by my beating heart.

“Write the words,” she says. 

I do as I’m told, laughing at the irony of my mission. I write the words because, she says, it is what poets do. Out spill the words I long to whisper in her ear. Drawn out are lines I wish to trace upon her naked skin. Pulled from within me are the breaths I wish to hold as I taste her sultry lips.

Helpless as a babe I am, a soft noodle in her broth, a tender piece of meat in her stew. Come to me, I think I shouted as my lips remain stilled, my eyes frozen in a time which may never really come, stuck on a page which she may never want to read.

“Write the words,” she says.


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