Sunday, November 30, 2014

I Didn't Stop

I didn't stop writing because I met you. I stopped writing because when I am with you I have nothing left to say. Because when I hear your heart beat through your chest, every word that I would have put down on paper, dissipates like smoke coming out of a fireplace. Because when you kissed me, on that bridge in Warsaw, you sucked the words right out of my mouth, and the pen and paper that I always carry around with me just in case I have something riveting to say, became useless, like a struggling writer on sabbatical whose bleeding fingers have now healed.

Because the truth is that I wrote to suffocate the pain. Because I never thought that I would be able to have this, anything like this, anyone like you. Because for most of my dreamlike existence, frogs like you alternated between different dimensions, just never this one. They smooched princesses who had no intention of ever waking up. They rode horses upside down inside a dark room surrounded by barbed wire. They skinned wool off of sheep, sewed it into invisibility cloaks, then sold them for less than a quid at a side street store in Praga, on the east bank of the river Vistula.

Because when you look at me with that boyish grin, I become a teenage girl again, only this time it's real, unlike all the other times, when it wasn't. Because I fell for you like rain in summer and leaves in winter. Because, looking at you now, my fingers felt the urge to do one of two things, bleed or write. Which I guess brings me back to this.

No I didn't stop writing because I met you. I stopped writing because when I am with you I have nothing left to say. Clearly.