I could write as if I was a tree, but I am not, nor ever have been a tree of any kind
I could write as if I was the sea, but if you inspect closely that is not true I think you will find
I could write of seas, and trees, and wannabes, but how could I write about me
I could write of those eighteen-thousand nights of making love or masturbating, and wonder at how the body is so efficacious in recovery
I could write of those fifteen-thousand mornings of waking up, together or alone, embraced by joy or pain, and wonder at the minds ability for reinvention
I could write of sleep and sex, yet still I expect, I could not write about me
