Alexandria Allen
If I write you down, will you come back?
This is not a question I want an answer too,
It is a question laced with false hope, a question which injects me with an opiate that can only alleviate my hurt for moments at a time.
Or maybe, it is a question of encouragement, igniting my passion for writing all over again.
Allowing me to believe that with my words I may resurrect you.
Coercing me to immortalize you with parchment.
Can I capture your life and preserve it in a page?
Within a book I command you to breathe again,
Each turning page can become a heartbeat, each dot of an "i" could be yours blinking. Every cross of my "Ts" might become your smiling lips.
If I bind you to a spine I would be able to hold you anytime I wanted.
With my pen, could I make you live forever?
Every word I write is my mind begging to hear your voice.
Each blister on my hand is a cry to the stratosphere to let me see your face again, the piles of empty pens grow as I drain their lives in my search for yours.
I'm writing your story everyday, continuously, my hand unceasing, yet this ink is fading.
No matter how many forests I cut down for a skin to mark on, never mind the thousands of words I've destroyed through redundancy.
Heaven has no empathy for my bleeding hands that have fought through innumerable words to save one life.
This story has still reached the end.