Halcyon

when words leave

I used to believe words would always find me,
that writing, like breath, could never vanish.
Once, I could set fire to silence with a single line.
Now, even my thoughts come out cold —
charred before they're born,
a writer unmade by her own fire.

My life once gave me words,
and I built worlds from their ash.
Now, they've taken their gift back,
and I kneel before the altar,
begging for company,
or at least a language that remembers me.

My ink runs dry.
The quill that once bled ink
now breaks and bleeds my soul.
My mouth is full of dust,
my hands forget the language of making,
words fossilise in my throat.
My library burns,
and my pen feels heavier than grief.

Is this a writer's block,
or a language that abandoned me
mid-sentence?
I reach for meaning and touch nothing
the muse has left the room,
my tongue forgets its own accent.
I can't find the veins of my pen;
oh wait — they're clotted.
The words won't come.

It's strange,
how the pen feels foreign now,
how the words hide when I call.
I used to write to stay alive.
Now, I write
to remember what living felt like.