she read the works of others to find the words to write. and when she finally wrote, she wrote until night fell and morning rose. until nothing was left. leading her to another author. a list of new words. another birthed story--some premature, others induced. until one day she realized the words of her stories weren't sticking. they didn't feel at home, as they were words she had cut and pieced together. words detached from their orgins. each story: a waif. it was then she selected the belongings that were less likely to weigh her down. she moved. saw. did. and with each step she took and every corner she turned she gathered the words that made her life. she wrote them down. they were words that stuck, like a heavy meal to the ribs. she had built a home for which her words felt welcome. and those words lived together, telling a story all on their own.
I’d like to crawl inside and feel the inner you.
I’d like to look through your eyes to see what your sight is set upon when you look forward, what gets caught in it when you look back.
I’d like to feel you ache when you’ve pushed yourself too far.
I’d like to wander in the beyond of your dark eyelids when you finally stop to rest.
I want to read your thoughts for a better translation of what pours from your mouth.
I want to taste your sour that’s my sweet and my bitter that’s your blunt.
I want to hear the words that make your ears stop to listen, finally.
No one will ever know you like the way I wish I knew you.