Have you ever considered the intimacy of writing? I have a pen, an expensive one given to me as a gift years ago by a man who cared for me. We became lovers for a brief time. I've used it almost constantly since.
Using his gift increased the intimacy, preserved it, even as we drifted apart and lost the other. The words I write are still tinged with his touch. Every stroke of the pen on paper is as soft as his hands on my body once were, covering the page with what can be said... covering my body with what words could not describe...
It's a cleaning-out day for me, sifting through the boxes claimed from Reed's house and jammed in my basement. Still packed after all these months, still waiting for me to decide their fate.
I found box with nothing but my writing. Page upon page of dot-matrix printing from my fifteenth summer when I sat down before the computer and didn't move for three months. I remember how I set up shop with my boom box and tape cassettes on a folding table next to me. Rain, shine, heat wave, it didn't matter. I sat and wrote. That was it. If it was exceptionally hot, I'd pull my hair into a granny knot and put on my bikini top with a pair of cut-offs. And I'd write. If my brother's friends came over to swim, I'm close the kitchen windows to keep the noise down. And I'd write. When my mother would shriek about whatever, I'd turn up the music and write. I played Fleetwood Mac until the cassette tape wore out.
I've never really finished a single book I've started. Perhaps because I never had the need. Perhaps I never knew the ending.
I think, though, now as I remember, that I might.