Questions of a poetic nature

Sometimes it feels like the world doesn't spin as much as it runs away from 'what if's'.
What if the indentation left on the sofa cushion still had you there to fill it?
What if my arm was still the last part of me to wake in the morning and the drool you left behind still felt like my arms tears, sad as the rest of me to see you rise and leave.

What if I had the ability to truly write what i feel. Not just the rough sketches of emotional silhouettes that they are but instead... The ability to capture every touch, sight, smell, and every emotion contained in a single moment.

I would let my hand become the vessel of my mind, dip my pen into the inkwell of my memories and let the moment pour from my hands as if I had just slit my wrists and let the lifeblood of my past bleed into the awaiting arms of crisp white paper.

What moment would I choose to bleed?

Would it be damp, tickling grass beneath my feet, never ending skies of translucent blue and her weight on my back the only thing keeping me from floating away into heavenly pastures?

Could any humble page even manage to contain the rapture that blossomed from the juncture of my neck and her lips when they met in the moment that the sun, moon and stars seemed to explode into a second, more brilliant life that lasted for the length of a single kiss?

Or would I paint the perfect melancholy of the moment that I first woke alone. When I realised my arm stayed awake all night like a frightened child, waiting for your lips on its wrist to reassure it.  

What if I had the ability to paint pictures with words that made the world stop running?

All it would take would be one moment, captured, framed and displayed on my chest for all to see. It would be the moment my eyes opened one morning to see that the part of me that you discarded, the one that moulded me and you together is no longer attached to me.

It would be knowing that I had the freedom to move unencumbered.