“Why do you write the things you do about me?” she hummed.
I looked up from my computer, rubbed my eyes, and met hers. Though she hated her brown eyes, they reminded me of sage just after a heavy rain, and this moment was no exception.
I laughed. “What do you mean by that?”
“I just mean that when you write, you paint these incredible portraits of sweeping valleys and sprawling countrysides that you see in my hair. You write of all the spiraling galaxies and bursting stars within my eyes. And you so love to liken my freckles to constellations. I sometimes wonder if you’re wasting your gift of words on the likes of me.”
I wondered who had done this to her. Who it was that made her feel that she was not worth any amount of affection and kind words. Who it was that had debased and belittled her, to such an extent, that she felt she did not deserve to be spoken of in such a way as mine.
I arose from my desk, and walked to my bed where she lay, reading one of her books. I grasped her hand tightly in mine, and whispered;
“My writing is wondrous. A gift, it truly is. But it is only so because of what I choose to write about. In that sense, my writing reflects you, and that is why it is beautiful to behold. Not because I have a way with words, but because my words have a way when used for you. And in that regard, you are more responsible for my words than I am.”
She laughed that sing-song laugh that made me feel as if I was standing on some forgotten beach, its crisp waters lapping at my feet.
“Fair enough, writer.”