First there is that itch upon the page, some ache of intentionality, some utility inferred. The blank an asking in itself, a condition of inheritance, the comfort of impulse in the framework of the thought. The empty inside invents the metaphor and your heart just longs to spill. All the old songs and gypped feelings, all the spells of blood and want and tongue writhing with the desire to be told. The pen finds everything it lacks there upon the bared pulp of the page. This scratching is all the rest.
Oh how the heart wants when it is wanting, how the voice so longs for a void. The letter always waiting in the skin of that blank page, the words lurking in these scratchings of blue ink. The breathless flow of the pen gliding in these tides of fervid blood and language. The dull palimpsest of the mind pressed against these wants and wishes, giving shape to what shadows will stretch into marks and symbols. These gaffed incantations of lust and love. The ache painted always in lacks and sighs, the letter so heavy it can scarcely take the crease.
Sometime all love leaves is embers. Sometimes all love leaves are seeds. Then there are these letters, etched onto paper but rooted in breath and blood. These castings left when language loses purchase, the change in the sky when the song turns wrong. Crisp and clipped in open hands, the bone dry cistern where this one voice flows, a moment pressed and folded, sudden wings aloft on your whispers. Evidence of a shaky hand and a changing light, love beating its tide upon this cribbed shore. The world as it unwinds, the trail of steam and smoke. Love as it burns and burns in these inky blacks and blues.