The end of writing

I’ve never read a piece that beats frosty grass on a morning crisp and bright

I’ve never heard a talk that equals the terrific and terrifying truth of the sea

I’ve never heard an argument as convincing as the snow drop

Or read a novel as gripping as the sky

So when I write, it’s a car crash

I’m trying to remove the words even as I’m putting them down

Deconstructing even as I construct

Hoping for miracle, like the flower appearing through brick and cement

Knowing only the space between these words has any life

And that nothing in the dictionary compares to the possibility of you

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