Have you ever seen her write? Have you ever just sat, and watched her surrender as the paper devoured her soul, as the pen carved into the unmarked linings of reproduced trees?
I have. I’ve seen her write. I’ve fallen asleep to the image of her etching patches of her soul into her diary. I’ve typed up essays to the company of her writing soundlessly behind me. I’ve found myself in a cafe, sipping lattes to the gentle glaze of her pen romancing paper.
She would write, and rewrite, and write, and rewrite, until she was satisfied with what had manifested onto the sheet tightly gripped in her hand. Then, she would place it, ever so gently, onto the table, and read the words from a slight distance. The words, the reflections of truth coming from the depths of her soul. Words of wisdom echoing the truth of what she may or may not have consciously recognised.
But she always loved what she wrote. Always.
And through writing, she always, always loved.
That’s all I wanted, to be a part of that, to be a part of the writing. To watch, to embrace, to collaborate.
To write, and to love.
Ever so silently, in the corner, across the table, under the sheets. I wanted to write with her.
And I wanted her to write with me.
is to love.
To be writing,
is to be love.