I am a writer who’s not writing.

I am a writer who’s laughing with friends
and drinking a seltzer in a bar
because work is at 9
and I am getting too old. 

I am a writer who’s on the train 
heading back to the city 
passing the stop for my hometown
wondering if one day I’ll end up back there. 

I am a writer who’s at my best friend’s house
watching her son try on his Halloween costume
as time is reminding me 
that it will not stand still 
because that used to be us.

I am writer who’s at the gym
when that song starts playing 
the one that reminds me of Madrid 
so I am texting my friend
because suddenly
I am 23 again. 

I am a writer who is walking down the street 
when I pass that older man who I see every day.
The man with a big toothless smile who sleeps on a bench.
We are smiling and waving when he asks
if he can get me a coffee.

I am a writer who is reading a book
wrapped up in a blanket 
remembering that Christmas 
reading with my dad in the living room 
with the dog on my lap  
and the lights on our tree.

I am a writer who is drinking black coffee
and eating dark chocolate 
with my hair in a bun 
and my Cape Cod sweatshirt on 
because no matter how much time passes
I am still me. 

I am a writer with visions and dreams  
and goals and ideas 
who is not even close to sure
about what comes next.                          

I am writer who is living and breathing
and reflecting and creating
who is feeling and remembering
and experiencing it all
so that I might form
any worthwhile words. 

I am a writer who is learning
about what matters
about what really matters
about you and me
and this moment here. 

I am a writer.