To write

She tells me to write
As if words emanate from
My old heart, pumping limply
Verses in the veins
As if I flick my wrists
And the ink

Of blood pours into fingertips

As if I can orchestrate the colors
That burst at their origin
A blinding symphony

Of memories that broke the ice
And swam in oceans beyond me
As if the anguish of limbs tearing
At the eyes due to some rash inaccuracy
And childish queries, suspicion and agony 

Left in my incompetent hands
Was nothing short of cacophony
As if I could grab the sunlight and the moonlight
The night and the day and all that lies
In limbo in between

Of hesitant affection and imprudent revulsion

And the smiles and the tears

And the real and the make believe
And become the scribe of history

As if I could take words
That linger uncomfortably, in midair

The dreams that grow beneath our pillows
And take the wisdom
From foresight and hindsight
Capturing the essence of perfection scrawled

On narrow ruled lined paper

Oh, she asks me to write

As if I ever could