Ninety-nine percent of the time my writing is about love or melancholy or a feeling of some sort. Rarely do words fall out attached to a name. Lately I can be found at the bottom of a barrel scraping up words to begin a sentence. A conjunction, anything to tease out the feeling inside.
One time a girl inspired so much writing I couldn’t stop. Pulling over to the side of a road to document a poem on the way to work, waking in the middle of the night to save a thought before being consumed in a dream, exiting the shower to write down a seed of an idea before it fleeted.
And then I was alone. The words stayed for a while, but rather than tapering and fading, one morning I awoke to silence. She was gone.
If ever again a woman inspires such rapture within me, I will need my hands on her body, her lips on mine, my fingers wrapped in her hair and my name on her breath. She must be that close.