The Habit

I deleted it. The blank page came back.

For three seconds, nothing.

Then the itch returned,

fingers moving before thought,

opening a new file.

It doesn't matter if anyone reads it.

It doesn't matter if it means anything.

The compulsion is the thing—

the need to keep translating

this feeling into language,

as if language could catch it,

as if the right words

would make sense of the mess.

But I write anyway.

I delete anyway.

I write anyway.

The cursor blinks.

I don't know what I'm saying yet,

but my hands know where to go.

They remember the way

to this small, empty room

where nothing is required

except the act itself,

the muscle memory

of reaching for words

even when the words

won't hold.