I WRITE BECAUSE I WRITE

I write because I write.
Because I have a thirst
to fill the void left in my heart
that was never there before
the day my lady died.

I have an impelling need for her love.
But, since love is stronger than death,
the love I have inside me
needs a place to go,
and has found a home with her
in her perennial diary,
written by me as she sleeps.

With each word that I write,
I can still taste her love
on my lips and in my mouth,
and like a fine, aged wine,
her bouquet lingers
long after the swallow
and becomes a mystery
reserved to itself.

Memories can easily trickle away with time,
but the fiery reflection from Florine's eyes
that mirrored the light from her heart,
has permanently etched
her spirit in all those
who were fortunate enough to
have known her.

She walked so fast she seemed immune to gravity.
She negotiated our world with fluidity
and was complete unto herself in every way.
She rode the moment like she rode
her thoroughbred in the rain,
but I am the one drenched to the bone
with memories of love and laughter
that never wavered
for the greater part of my lifetime.

I will never tire of coming and going into her life.
Telling her story fulfills my journey
and has become the sole purpose of my life.
When I write, I don't have to imagine
the world without her.
I can visit her whenever I please
to escape the perils of actuality,
and to savor her enlightened
sense of the world.

If she wasn't real
I would have made her up.
So I close my eyes,
drift away,
and talk to her.

I write because I write.

Because I am compelled to.

© JOHN PISCATELLA