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writing about writing

written for day 2 of the poetry tag

some days you are a romance writer, writing about love as if you are well-versed in the realm of heartache: five ways to fall in love                       with love                       on love                       over love                       out of love five rules to follow when you date a boy who looks at you like you painted the sky in all its brilliant shades of blue five paths to take so you don’t step on the shards during the aftermath of a break                              up (and a thousand more to take so you do.) some days you write books for adults who want to be children: you tell of the feeling of chasing the wind in a brick-red courtyard, the taste of dreams both near and far (astronaut journalist roadsweeper beggar) the smell of your parents’ clothes, a dizzying sweet scent of comfort and home. but most days you don’t write. instead you think about writing, about how you aren’t so much reader or writer but a reservoir of thirst that cannot be quenched by merely delving into a book; how the longing to write is ever-present in the blood in your veins, the crook of your fingers, the skin of your palm. most days, you write about writing.