Colygraphia

Marisa Victoria Gedgaudas

I must try to find the words. I must keep this promise to myself. I must pay the debt even if there is no one coming to collect it.

Days ago I wore the promise like a silk scarf, soft on my neck and sighing gently in my ear only when I turned this way or that. Now it wears like a wool coat in June, heavy and hot against my skin.

How I ache for alliteration. Hunger for hyperbole. Pine for poiesis.

I would say that life has pulled me away or that maybe I’ve lost the spark. But the pink morning fog creeping toward the pines, the call of the nightjar in the midnight desert, the murmuring voices in a town far from home; they are all stories waiting to be told.

In truth, I know that this is less about distraction and more about the fear that swells somewhere near the base of my throat. The syrupy seduction of believing that I can be a keeper of stories but not the teller of them. A ceaseless whisper that says not enough.

But oh, how I want to write you an ode to the luscious decadence of a Luxardo cherry fished from the bottom of a glass.

To spin a love story about a saffron-hued sunset after weeks of perpetual rain.

To pull these words like taffy and hope they land sweet and salty on your tongue.