The stillness of 2 a.m.
embraces me at noon, as the
tattoo peeks out to say hello
while I grab hibiscus tea
in a cafe, where I wished
I was a regular,
the cashier asking,
How’s that book going?
When I’m not writing, I am
a lonesome wisp with telescope eyes,
eager to find magic in morning dew,
evil in evening whispers between commuters.
She asked why “write,”
Not “writer”?
Though logically an easy label,
Might as well,
Society loves them.
I remember the intent of
the ink on me,
for me.
How can I be a writer—
No—
Why bother with the title when I’m still here
Writing.
Copyright ©️ 2018 Daniela Doncel. All rights reserved.
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