i'm trying to write about white roses in bloom at dusk in remote places, of broken hearts that have no will to repair themselves.
i'm trying to write and that's the problem, the ink that used to run my veins has bled out
and now they sit hollowed
echoing what remains of a heart's
quiet wailing
every day is a run through of motions with a lack of emotions
mimic the same laughter at the same jokes at the same cues
nothing less than happy outwards even if inside rests disbelief but
his hands don't produce passion
her smile doesn't fill my mind
all this is, a shell of what was,
somehow a piece of myself went missing
and though i know exactly where to
find it, i will not have it. i will breathe,
i will move, i will learn to live without you,
eventually,
not today.
