I Write because...

I hear his voice slithering through my unconscious night thoughts.

I see her bleeding smile darkening my unstable day.

I taste their lust stricken sweat leaking into my mouth and seeping beneath my tongue.

I smell your childish happiness mixing, whisking, baking-- nostalgia in the oven.

I feel our eyes molding into the contours of one another's body, memorizing shadows and bone structures.

I sense the glare of judgment burning a heated path along the curve of my spine.

All of these now just memories and stories.

I write because these are my photographs.

I write because these words are my electronic pixilations uncaptured by clicks.

I write because these are the overlooked details of a story that go untold. I write because writers always paint the colors and hues of moments with their words; the colors and hues that would leave love and anger, lust and rage a simple red rather than that shade that crackles at the peak of a fire that's been burning for 2 1/2 hours or that shade that rains over a pale faced man's cheek when he falls embarrassed to his knees at the sight of a robin along the footpath of his rose garden behind his beautiful love carrying a bowl of sliced watermelon and Japanese cherries.

Writing about the unseen and peripherally seen "nothing's" and everything.

I write because I want my words to be melodies unforgotten in songs unsung.

The truth and voice in and of the world overshadowed.

I write because cliches do not define me, love has been too battered to describe how I feel about him and crush is to elementary of a concept, because that one photograph, that one sudden planned-unplanned-still smile(s)-still eyes- still still still, above the waist framed glossing of a memory does not show that my legs were shaking, veins blue, heart BREATHING, pulse awakening--new, true, neutral, hue, you, few, many, mini, minor, emotional  cuts and scrapes, that terrible grape I swallowed willfully, willingly, wondering, waiting, why- words!

I write because of words, written under willow trees.

And I read poetry because of words; I want to know your untold stories.

Read your still photographs.

Learn the colors and hues of your life..

I write-because I live in a world that forgets the other.


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