Sunday, April 15, 2012

Writing it out.

they told me that writing it out can be healing,
but words don't know this dance.
they only know the dance between fingertips and keys. ... backspaces in too many spacebars.
they don't know this dance.

They don't know the dance between infatuation and love and perplexity that comes with breathing life in exhaling who we are, and inhaling peace of mind with someone in sync. They don't know how to hold hands and kiss sweetly in places, cheeks and foreheads without speaking. They don't know how to create butterflies inside heart ventricles and blood streams and convert them into timid smiles and akward laughters.

They only know how to hold fingertips and keys and let go and move on to the next one. ..for another key stoke. They only know how to move in repetitive monotonous motion.
they don't have the attention span that feelings do.

Writing is not feeling.
It is writing.

writing is only feeling in memory.
...memory is feeling.
writing is not healing.

maybe writing is memory's distant cousin in how they interact in proximity of feelings... but fall apart when feelings are gone.


if words knew the dance and cadences felt in the act of falling in love, then maybe they would hold their own weight in the memories I have of them in conversations I recall of him and I
but in writing this, ... the heaviness I feel is lopsided and it buldges at the sides.
It's awkward.
it is as ugly as it is beautiful
it is as salty as it is bitter
... and maybe as it should.

after all.
writing is not healing.
writing is writing. is not feeling.

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