It has always seemed to me that writers were blessed people - having such great perception on things, and the ability to write about them. For a long time, I longed for my pen to flow with words that would touch souls.
I got my wish. With a price to pay.
My words were engraved on the ghosts of trees, and whispered by the lips of lovers. They were read - and liked. And accepted.
I wrote about him - he was the only thing I wrote about. Even after we were over, and there was no hope of a reincarnation, I wrote about him. We had been done and over - yet the words wouldn't stop flowing.
Each stroke of the pen drew blood, opening raw wounds over and over again.
With us, words were endlessly infinite, but never enough.
There was him - in every morning scribble, in every midnight sonnet. Just a trace, or sometimes the whole of him, in every cursive letter I carved.
I wrote to bring him closer, I wrote to be his, even if it was just for a moment or two. I wrote to feel that raw ache in my heart, to experience that bittersweet pain of bringing him back. I wrote, for I was addicted, addicted to the sorrow, addicted to the prickling pain. It seemed like there was nothing more than him - nothing but him to give all of me to.
I remembered what I had wished for when I realised my words didn't affect him the same. I realised too late that writers were definitely blessed, but also cursed - forever commiserating over their loss, reaching for what they would never know the weight of.
