Has anyone ever written something for
you? You who labors over pages of
raw emotion, who stares at the same
space on the wall from evening sun to
early moon in search of the perfect
word? Have hands cramped and
callused over the hills and valleys of
your name, blistered and cut, not
bothering to acknowledge the trickling
of blood because it quickly turns from
pain into sweet ruby devotion? Have
you ever had your indents caressed?
You know, the deep ones between
your thumb and fingers or the striped
ones on your mid arms from scribbling
scattered thoughts onto weathered
pages? Has anyone ever watched the
way your eyes shine when you think?
Did they see the way you search
tumbling storm clouds for the single
silver ray, or the depth of the soulless
ocean for the glint of golden treasure?
Has anyone ever told you how beautiful
your mind is? How, if the world went
black, you would cherish the way a fire
dances on a wax stage? Has anyone
ever written something for you?
Because I would. I would write you a
thousand sonnets, haikus and ballads if
you'd look at me with those shining
eyes and think of me with that beautiful mind.