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I Write
I write because
There is a world I inhabit,
Where the quivering descent of the toothpaste from the brush
And onto the sink,
While I am trying, once again, to get accustomed to the old face in the mirror,
Evokes a sense of Shakespearean tragedy.
I write because
My truth is not a single eloquent sentence, perfectly articulated,
But the shapeless drop of rain that lands on your roof,
Flows through the gutter,
Into the river,
And returns as soup to your kitchen.
I write because
An old stain on the table,
On the pillow,
Of the toothpaste on the sink, dropped earlier,
Is a Michelangelo,
An unassuming Van Gogh.
I write because the universe loves to admire itself
With my borrowed eyes.
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