I wish I wrote like you breathed. Like you lit a match and inhaled the fire. Like you ran a mile in my shoes, even though they pinched your toes together into a club. Like you wept so loudly the air inside you turned to water.
I wish I wrote like you laughed. Loudly and boldly. Quickly and fiercely. Happily and wholesome.
I wish I wrote like you looked at me. Like I was the best thing to happen to you. Like I was a galaxy and each star in its pattern.
But I write like I breath. Hesitantly. With sadness. Like maybe I should stop because I’m no good anyway.
I write like I laugh. Softly and quietly. Badly and painfully. Slowly and wistfully.
I write like I look at you. Like maybe I should kiss you but I don’t know how. But I try to, anyway.
I wish I wrote like you are you, but I write like I am me.
And I am nothing.