A morning arrives in words. Half asleep, I read tales of strangers. Later, after the coffee has sunk in, I shift and scrub my own to make them just a little better than before. Let my eyes brush over old poems of summers ago, the summer when you left me, do you remember? It's some of my best work, so the heartache was not a waste.
It's a cruel truth to write better in agony, but it is crueler still to not write at all, I will take every morsel of prose I am offered.
My father writes from across the country and says it's too late to tell his story, because who would listen now? His friends die around him, how finite a life without faith in the ridiulous, how much more urgent to write all your words before it is too late.
Write all your words before it is too late.
There's an answer on those pages, somewhere in your layers of ink lie answers and you will not rest until you've found them. The sunlight returns now.
It's easier to see clearly again.
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