strings of words

「 write me. 」

does it matter

if i thought about you

at 2 am when the stars are high

or at 2 pm when the sun is shining?

does it matter if i was hurt,

and all i could do was stay silent

or continue whining?

maybe it does. maybe it does not.

but what will i end up with, anyway?

just a new stream of overflowing words

a pen

an ink

and a paper.

they say if a writer falls in love with you,

you can never die.

the words keep you alive.

but when you said, "write me."

all i could think of, until now,

is broken poetry.

i think of you the way you treated me--

dead shrubs floating on a lonely sea,

a bird's empty nest

resting on a tree.

i should be writing about

colors, fireworks, and lights,

but all i have now is

isolation and fright.

you were the brightest painting in the room

but you somehow blinded me from you

so when you say write me,

i can't write about your bright brown eyes that glisten,

nor your sweet, cute smile that i'm missing

but i can write your

tears, anger, and the need to leave

my heart broken and my eyes to grieve

no matter how short

or how long

my sad laments will be

it will always live

between these gloomy pages

where it was destined to be

— a.g, "write me."