i am not a writer

I am not a writer.

But she was.

I am not an artist, a painter, a weaver of words.

But she was.

Me? My craft is honed.

Between the

spreadsheets,

circle backs

synergies,

touch points

I draft the perfect prose, the most wondrous of words

for the most eloquent of emails.

Not what she meant.

Not what she wanted.

In a tale as old as time

she wanted

novels,

poetry,

essays,

stories.

Love affairs in ink, dragons on paper, wages of words.

She was the writer. She was the dreamer.

Not me.

I am trying now.

Forgive me, I am trying.

I type empty little words in white spaces,

scribble garbage onto scraps

Retch phrases in my daydreams

Are they worth the pixels? A misuse of graphite? A waste of words?

For her, they are everything.

I am not a writer.

But she wanted me to be.