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.