I can write with the two eyes in the sockets of your face. Brown, be proud take the green masks off. Pour the stars you house out in liquid love so I know your there, that you can see me too.

I can write with the skin on your arms, down your hands, gloved to your delicate little fingertips. I take it off, wrap it around my ball point pen, trying to make the words soft like you, to make them smell like you, to cover them with freckles, and birthmarks. I try to cuddle them, they wrap me in am embrace.

I can write with the lines in your smile. I’ll un-curve, and curve them into little shapes. They fly around my head, stars. I’ve been hit with a hammer.

I can write with spit. That tastes of a million coconut crème snow cones, your grandmothers cooking, teriyaki noodles, and the blood spewing from your tongue as you gnaw at it, stifling anger, red furry, because I’ve begged you to.

I can write in symbols shaped like us on the park swings, kicking our legs till they were tired, but my minds legs still running.

I can write as though nothing in my house fell over or down in the earthquake. That still you lay with me on Saturday nights. That still I remember the way your palm felt on mine. That I still remember it all, struggling, though these memories are fading from my clutching grasp.

I can write with nothing because I’ve done it, I’ll do it again, and again.

The words don’t belong to anyone, they are ours, I’ll put them down, hide them away, secret treasure in my back yard.