My friend is a writer...

a master of words. He's thoughtful, eloquent, descriptive and funny. I miss his pen to paper to computer, words. He would tantalize and tease me when he was writing. Set up a title, describe the events, send me a paragraph, leaving me with bated breath hoping for more. Wishing he would hurry and finish his latest D tale.

He didn't write erotica, or exotic tales, he wrote what he lived, from his heart. He would read me excerpts, his voice giving in to the meaning these stories had for him. He would call from his desk at Caribou (his favorite scribing place), describe his surroundings, his latest idea, or his last paragraph.

I loved the thought of him writing in his notebooks, highlighting what he wanted to remember, reading, rewriting, revamping. He showed me his notebooks once, they were so full of words, every line, front and back pages, filled with words, little pictures to remind him of placement. I want to read all of them, carefully examine his handwriting, look for little spots of coffee, blood, sweat , tears, fingerprints, any signs of the man whose words I was reading.

I want to tell you how careful he is with his words. There are never too many, never over the top, always just right. You can never scan his words, you will miss something. You will miss something important to his story. Sometimes I think he is too careful, I want him to linger over the pictures he is painting in my mind, make the sky a little bluer, the man a little taller, the sea a little deeper.

I'm waiting for him to go back to his entertaining of me, with his pen to paper to computer, words. My friend is a writer of words that were meant for me.