Ink stains

People always ask me why I write. I never really know how to answer. Maybe 
because some feelings
 are too loud to stay inside,
 even when they're happy. Maybe
 because I notice little things the way rain makes everything
 look like it's remembering something, or how music
can say what people never do. Maybe it's because 
I don't trust memories. Words stay. They wait patiently 
between paper and ink,
 never interrupting,
 never asking me to explain. Some poems are messy. Some don't rhyme. Some end halfway through
 because I decided silence
 fit better. I think that's okay. Not every story
 needs to be heartbreaking 
to be worth telling. Sometimes,
it's enough
to write about the sky,
or the song stuck in your head,
or the way a page
 can make you feel 
a little less alone even if no one else
ever reads it. So why do I write? Because someday,
 I'll forget
who I was  But maybe
 my poems won't.