My purpose

The morning sun spilled tired energy across his bare skin

There was something so thrilling about the way the dust danced in all the hills of his strength

It made me feel so insecure about the awkward shadows that rested upon my skin 

They fit themselves into all the ordinary parts of me 

Suddenly words danced across his lips

"Why do you write?"

I looked away

I write because of how tragic it would be to lose the feelings of my most terrible moments

How would I remember just how it felt?

How it plucked my very lightness away so that I would be obligated to work that much harder for my happiness

I do not know if writing heals those broken parts of me 

Or rather if it is slowly killing me

But they are just words across pages and pages with words

Is there really anything special in that?