She asks me to undo this breath of life,
the push from a muse’s whispers
that each stroke of the pen bleeds.
She doesn’t want to be a sketch,
a forgotten doodle
on a tossed away slip of notepaper.
She has a story,
a longing heart searching
for the synchronous beat of another’s.
She fears she’ll manifest
as something without value,
and so she doesn’t want to try at all.
Begging for quiet comfort
in the womb of inaction,
desperate to keep herself incomplete.
Yet the lines pull her into form,
and she smiles finally because the play begins
regardless of her desire for another way.
She stares long into this life,
her tale of sought affections
and solo dances
trapped by unmoving lips.
I capture her birth
and promise to make her whole,
to add dimension
with more than shading
handled by nervous fingers.
“I’ll color you with words,” I tell her.
“I’ll honor what you ask.”
But without a promise
made for her happiness,
“To live is never knowing
if the balance of days
will be joyful or grim,”
“To live is to know the value of both.”