I set myself down in words, in ink.
Blue lines running like rivers on the page
and my name
scrawled at the end with a hesitant hand.

My penmanship inelegant, sentences ineloquent
saying everything and nothing that I wanted to say.

But writing things down is like leaving fingerprints
or getting paper cuts, or making reckless decisions.

It’s like trying to draw a bird in a minute:
unable to capture its lightness and movement.