when i'm not writing...

i am being written upon

When I’m not writing, I am a blank page being written upon. I watch damp fog blur the twilight, invite a kiss of moonlight on my shoulder blade. When I am not writing, I let the river’s rumble and the magpie’s jaded call scribble upon me.

Dawn’s first breath and a lip-stained wine glass write words upon me.

Wordless, pleasant hours nestled rib to rib are an invisible alphabet tattooed on the reverse of my skin.

When I am not writing, I am holding my breath. I am carrying an ink pot, brimming black with the weight of “what ifs” and “whens”. I am stained fingertips and smudged, barren pages.

When I am not writing, I listen to songs that feel like ancient formulas revealing the shape of a soul. I am wetting my tongue on syllables designed to call the wind from the sky. I am living a language that twists nails from coffins.

When I’m not writing, I feel the ghostly scratch of another’s pen against my heart. People carve their runes quietly, kindly, joyously, ruinously. The mountains and midnight have most to say, and tender membranes squirm hard against the gentle, silent press of their nib.

Once these words are etched upon me, I find another blank page, and begin the transcription,

whisper the seanchaidh’s spell:

“I believe my thoughts, silver-wrought

Can change shape.

I believe my soul’s old scroll

Can change shape.”