From: The Writer
I’ve picked up the pen to bleed ink that remains. I’d rather drink it than not let these words reach your gaze.
Do you still love flowers? Is your soil still bitter? Has this winter made you better? I will not stick out my sore green thumb and leave. I will not desert you when drought is all you reap. I know we’d grow the way that weeds grow. Freely and ugly, never again blooming.
Sedentary tongues still stir tempests, so I’ll mark my words with a grave on yesterday, a pen for the present. I could love everything I’ve been forbidden from you for. I could lose everything I’ve written you for. I could deliver a baby to find it stillborn.
I’ve written to apologize. I love without touching and touch without loving. I once said, “If you don’t believe in hearts, you can’t have mine.” We’ve got the same beat, you and I. One heart between two people is something you can’t divide.
Yet, my pen dies.
Take it with a grain of salt; take it to your grave. Take it with a spoon of sugar. Take it as you may.