Written by Lauren

What will become of me—

when the rigid tips of my fingers fail to

communicate my river of thoughts?

The stony arches of memories

burrow into the fibers of my pen.

Fragmented sentences melt into my eyelashes.

The moment of my magnificent understanding has passed with

periods and

commas and

dashes and …

You asked me to describe it to you.

You wanted to feel every quiver,

wanted your skin to stretch with mine—

I wish that I could meld your soul into my flesh.

It is like taking your first conscious breath.

It is the only thing tethering me to reality.

I am transfixed in the waiting,

and watching,

and listening,

and feeling…

I can not seem to fathom,

how quickly life is turning its page across the wrinkles in my mind.

This craft has taken more of me than I from it.

I would gladly dismember every filament of my mortal being—

to feel the exhalation of my grief at the end of a sentence.

My blood has turned to ink and my skin to papyrus.

I told you that I was drowning.

You said to write.

I told you I was uninspired.

You brought me a pen—

and I waited.