Writers are tectonic plates,
Shifting and erupting,
Feeling the pull of everything.
Never truly dormant,
We feel everything to our molten cores,
As we try to find our shape.
I often want to wrap myself up in your words,
And hide there forever.
I found her last night,
Slowly making her way back from her furthest point.
And no matter the distance,
I still feel her pull.
You are laced into my thoughts,
As I wander the paths,
We used to take.
Your name is on every leaf.
He slipped extra time,
Into her back pocket;
Because she was always loosing hers,
And it was the most valuable thing he had to give.
A book entitled,
“My Love Affair With You”,
And every page,
Forests with half hidden paths.