Evan Gilbert, sex tape

I heard once that writing

is a sex tape—

recording the intimacy

of the writer and his words,

his words and the page,

the page and the pleasure,

the pleasure and the pain.

Writing is raw, natural

messy;

writing is shaky, scrappy

beauty;

writing is real, breathing

moving.

Writing is personal,

unpolished,

private;

intimate ideas

making moans

screaming silhouettes

on the white bed sheets

of the page
until the             climax                           comes
action

falls

with exhaled punctuation,
and hands reaching to darken the camera
closing the page
in an exasperated dénouement…

 

 

Is it too forward

to ask you

to write with me

to make words with me

to have textual relations with me?

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