Why I Write

Because there are midnights, and the moon,
and little girls in tutus spinning at ballet class.
Because there are blue eyes, and calloused hands,
and lopsided grins that never straighten,
and smog-ridden cities, and bridges
where jumpers swim.
Because there are benches under apple trees,
high-heeled boots clicking down hallways, friendship
bracelets and bike rides to nowhere, sun-kissed shoulders
and Sunday afternoons.
Because there are hospital beds and dried carnations,
toes in the mud, soap that smells like
field day bubbles and fourth grade.
Because there are still colors and war
and music and nightmares
and words left buzzing in our hands.
Because we are human,
trial and error, pause and play,
rewind, never stopping,
always playing with time
in constant motion.

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