she says to a heart beating fast,
having fallen in love with a lovely life
wanting to dance the music of the world around.
she says to pen scratching across paper
trying in vain to capture the sound of leaves rustling,
somehow managing to hold their own against a wind
that takes and gives on whim alone
(lifting houses up, sending them crashing down
bringing relief to a feverish day)
she says to a keyboard clicking, typing out the
feeling of tears making themselves at home
in the wrinkled valleys of faces no longer
strong enough to mask anger at the injustice
of being the one everyone left behind
she says to her thoughts… whirling, fighting their way
down arms, through fingers and tips to a messy and inky birth;
past teeth and tongue and lips, to ears and minds and maybe hearts.
i’m trying to write.