With a madness that would drive the same crazy.
I’d write until I filled endless reams of paper.
That reach out into infinity like arms that grab at you in bad dreams.
I’d write about the endless abyss of mechanical bubbles and leaves falling upwards.
And little girls dancing amongst them, always wanting to catch one.
Only to grasp at edges that blur when you touch them.
I’d write about afternoons and clouds and teacups that never stop spinning.
Laughter ringing out over playgrounds as the mothers scold teens hiding under slides.
Smoke streaking out from under marker covered shoes.
And scars whose stories are far less interesting than they are described to be.
Id write about broken coffee mugs
And cat hair on pillowcases.
I’d write about staying up until the world goes quiet.
The moment when the everyday thoughts cease.
And memories come into play.
I’d write about you way more than I want to.
If I wrote the way that I thought.