Sometimes
I like to wonder,
does
my pen move
the
same way as yours?
Does
it
dance?
Does
it
sing?
Does it
impel
a grateful piece
of
paper to smile,
and
laugh out
tiny
bubbles of its dream
to
be admired in the Louvre?
Or
does the paper bleed
angry
droplets of deep-coloured
ink-blood
from its ink-heart
from
its ink-soul; or does it cry
little
black tears
from
its dark fountains of literature?
Does
the paper feel
all
of these things
as
you sketch your last
line
or
as I write my last
word?
What
then, when every one of your pictures
makes
words in the thousands?
How
many more chunks of eternity
can
you paint versus my poetry?
Yet you say I understand you.
Sometimes
what you paint
flickers
like in the movies,
and
every frame
makes
me wonder
if the
way my pen moves
is
just something someone animated
in
her free time instead of studying.
Maybe
then it wouldn't be too much
to
say that sometimes
you
sketch me into life.
Maybe
then, this is why, sometimes
you say I understand you.
Even
if I can barely hear your oxygen
over
the noise of glittering pixels
that
often disappoint us when we seek
more
than
these strange profundities online,
where
emotion is a commodity
and
not ink... not paper...
It
doesn't matter.
Because
maybe my pen
was
sketched by you.
And
maybe
your
poetry, your art
Dances.
Sings. Smiles.
Laughs.
Bleeds. Cries.
Breathes.
So you can as well.
 |
| Happy Birthday Bianca! Thanks for always being fun. |
