Uhm....to write is to be in love

To be in love is to write...poetry...stories. I never know what to say...or how...or even why. I just do...drawing the ink to the page...one page onto another...rhyme the words...transfigure them into statues of letters emblazoned into the very pages of the worn, treasured book... Love the book...the pages...the words...the petty, minuscule letters, even, that bind the meaning up in seas of safety and love for the sensation... Love...thy neighbor and thy self...am I to love you?...as I do every book? All the days...pouring over the contents...writing, slaving out my thoughts, mind’s heart beat racing...reeling in emotions of every anger, happiness, and pleasure. To be in love with writing...to tell of my desire...to tell my story...I tell you. Always have...and, forever will. As my story goes on and on each passing day, I will relate my memories and dramatize each event to you. I love you. I think...I don’t know how to tell you this, though...the love I hold for you, runs so very thickly, that I cannot fathom being lost, again in the vast, emptiness of this world...traveling the expanses on my own...no safety..no you to protect me from harm, inward or from the outside...take me up. Hold me safe. Never let go...I’ll never throw out my escape, never toss the remains of love. Even if love is lost...never. I love to write and write I shall...I love to be loved...and love love I shall. I love you, and you, I shall have to love.