God,
I can barely remember
when we were strangers
and all I knew was your name.
And I could sit next to you,
and not feel a thing.
I could look in your eyes
and not know exactly what you were thinking.

I wish I could draw out my feelings.
But all I would get
is a mess of paper and pencil
and some scrambled up picture
of demented people
with missing heads and limbs.
Or no faces.

So I write.

Because there’s something so methodic
about the rolling of a ballpoint pen
running over college ruled paper.
It’s an antidrug in itself-
rehab in every letter
and safety in every punctuation.

No, not like a cut.
Not like a sharp, shiny razor
slicing a beautifully, unmarked arm.
No, nothing like that.
Nothing compared to the constant typing of words
or the forming of sentences. And thoughts.

So I write.