I promised to write and I did try. I swear I tried with every kind of night - the blue one, the dancing one, the one that's so handsy. I tried with the mornings too, all of the mornings - the empty one, the repentant one, all of them. I tried but the thread was either too short, or the needle did not have an eye.
But I am here now, writing, after many runaway words I am here, writing, as I said I would.
I do not know if I am writing because I said I would and the words have sworn loyalty to my word, my subconscious or I am writing because I have simply found mercy in their sight but Darling, I am writing.
I am writing into you, because you see, for you I have only entry points, no exits. I am writing you, the little stretch of your upper lip, drawing words to connect through the dots on your bust, writing hallelujahs into your dreams and amens for my name doing a rhumba with your mouth.
I am writing me too, but I am blank page until you are a book, and then a chapter in your book, perhaps a line.
Hey. I am writing.