I thought I would run out of words
when soft beams of light peaked past the horizon,
like the letters would sink down with the moon.
Because for years I’ve made the stars my ink
and the night sky my canvas.
I guess the sunlight just feels strange
when you’ve spent so much time in darkness.
But now it warms my frosted fingers,
pulsing liquid lava through my veins.
Sleepless nights becoming tired mornings.
But they are new.
And so am I.
I can write about hope,
even if I have so little left.
I can write about truth,
even though I lie right through my teeth.
I can write about peace,
even though I see none of it in me.
And I can write about love,
even though I haven’t the faintest clue
of what it could be.