Write

Cursed with an inability to write, the words that flow through my fingers become muddled and sore and weathered and torn. These words do not make any sense and yet there is somewhat of an ebb in them. Oh please, what I would give for you to give me back those flowing words, those crystal and crimson words so that I can then write... Write about me, write about you, write about the tree that sits outside my windowsill and how bright the lighter burns when I hold it up to my eyes.