Their words are golden.
Shimmering—loud in its splendor.
Letters that fit
like old continents before they drifted.
I want my letters to arrange itself.
See vowels jump over consonants
and settle between the majority.
Knowing its place, saying:
This is where I belong.
But somehow it falls short.
The words don’t shine.
Fragmented sentences that were neither out of place
or in place.
I read the ink on their pages again
(the arches of Garamond a sanctuary)
For I can never call myself a writer
when their words sink so deeply into me
while mine only scratches the surface
of your eyes.