92/365: Stories we can’t tell

I wonder if other writers mourn the words the can’t write.

The stories they can’t tell.

The poem.

The musings on coffee shop napkins.

From The Decemberists, “The Engine Driver,”

“And I am a writer, writer of fictions

I am the heart that you call home

And I’ve written pages upon pages

Trying to rid you from my bones

I am a writer, I am all that you have home

Home

And I’ve written pages upon pages

Trying to rid you from my bones

My bones”