“Just write,” they told me.  And I did.
My smooth cursive running over
each ****** page.
I wrote run-on sentences
without any punctuation that ran on for days without
a single breath of air and when I finished
I spleled wrods wrnog
and didn’t even try to fix them.

Then I began to write about you,
and no matter how hard I tried to stop,
the words flowed out of me
like they were meant to be on paper all along.

I wrote of the time you dragged me to your beach house
on Long Island
even though I was sick and miserable.  
You lay in bed with me all weekend until finally
I made it out to the beach.  
I went home sicker and redder than I had been before.
But you loved me anyway.  

I wrote of the time when we tried to drive across the country,
but we got bored somewhere around Harrisburg.  
Aunt Jay’s Pancake House made the trip worthwhile.  
I can still taste your buttery pancakes and
my gooey French toast on my lips.  
I wish we could go back there just one more time.

I wrote of the day you said goodbye-
the first time that is.
I didn’t get out of bed for three weeks,
you know,
wondering why you even called to see if I was ok.
When I finally pulled myself up and out
of the stuffy, black room
I was surprised the sun was still rising
and the world was continuing on without
us.

I wrote of the day you said goodbye-
the second time.
You didn’t call this time
or write
or give one sign that you were hurting so badly.
I could have fixed you.
I could have loved your pain away.

“Just write,” they told me, “And all of your pain will disappear.”
They don’t understand, though.
I’m not worried about my pain.
I want to go back and write away yours.