the soul of a writer can be found
in words
s cr
ib
b led on
crumplednapkins -- like horcruxes--
when sleep feels like a far off dream (when people watch you, wondering if you are strung out on coke while you scratch words on these thin sheets of paper in restrauntsbarscoffeshops
half
mad
eyes glassy)
in discernible handwriting comparable
to some
primitive
hieroglyphics-- a language of voices in your head and dreams too vivid
they can be found on the backs of hands
and journals
and popcornbags
when nightlights are too dim in the early hours of insomnia
and moonlight is obscured by curtains
in drinks like london fogs
and ***** chais
and black coffee
and black tea
in packs of empty
American Spirits
and half-full (empty) gas tanks
and piles of books that will never be read that will be re-read and quoted
and tweed scarves and
empty journals and chipped nail polish
in dead pens and phones
in unanswered texts, emails, messages
and unrequited love
their souls can be found in the
stained
bottoms of coffecups
and sticky shot glasses
and wine glasses (some still half full of cheap
redwhitezinfadel
because rent is hard to pay
when no one wants to
read words
scribbled on the back of a napkin