I Write Because

I write because

There is a world I inhabit,

Where the quivering descent of the toothpaste from the brush

And onto the sink,

While I am trying, once again, to get accustomed to the old face in the mirror,

Evokes a sense of Shakespearean tragedy.

I write because

My truth is not a single eloquent sentence, perfectly articulated,

But the shapeless drop of rain that lands on your roof,

Flows through the gutter,

Into the river,

And returns as soup to your kitchen.

I write because

An old stain on the table,

On the pillow,

Of the toothpaste on the sink, dropped earlier,

Is a Michelangelo,

An unassuming Van Gogh.

I write because the universe loves to admire itself

With my borrowed eyes.