Writing Is

Writing is like leaves falling on a violin. It’s like honey dripping off my lip. It’s like a dandelion reaching, reaching in abounding happiness. Writing is like many dribbles on my car window jutting whichever ludicrous way strikes them. Writing is loose skirts that drag on the ground and airy pyjama pants. It’s the smell of campfire smoke on a neighborhood walk. Writing is playing basketball and feeling the fire twenty years too old, till your lungs wheeze and say, “Please.” Writing is my way of beading a necklace till it’s perfectly balanced yet edgy. Writing has to be done. It won’t wait. Otherwise the words flow down the drain with the last of the sediment…

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