Author Information
In Writing
Folder:
Purple Sol Forever My writings have been
sporadic entries by
a lovesick, passion-deprived girl.
Why does my heart move me to
write when a man starts to make
each chamber and ventricle beat
like an African drum during a
tribal gathering?
Fast and hard.
The pen moves fast, pressed hard
on the cream paper with ecru lines.
Or tan lines.
Hoping to show him a glimpse of
my tan lines.
This free write always
becomes a rewrite.
First, "how warm he makes me feel inside"
revised to "how warm he feels inside"
revised to "how, where, when and why
did it, all of the sudden, just, die?"
The purple ink that once
smelled like "Violets are blue"
now stinks of sad and cruel truths
of my own failures in love.
So in love with being in love
that I wish love even when
nowhere is love.
It's all in my mind,
even if it is in writing.
