The secret

30

my words spill aimlessly and jumbled across the paper,

jumping, dancing,

with no rhyme nor rhythm,

just frantic dark lines that look abrasive upon the parchment,

ink sinking deep.

my words normally sing,

they are organized and fluent,

gliding seamlessly across the page,

always a rhyme and rhythm,

and now,

they are just frantic scribbles upon a white sheet of paper.

but you,

you and your burning gaze,

you the memories you invoke,

you and the feelings you spark in my chest,

you.

you make my words stop, my poetry hitch and break,

each memory of you stinging at my heart.

i wish i had words to describe the ache i feel at night,

the lingering smell of strawberries and cologne dancing upon my nose,

just there enough to make me wish i wouldn’t lie alone upon my bed again, but not there enough to soothe me,

to fully remind me that

you existed here once.

you held me here once.

your memory is an eternal ghost to me,

clinging to every piece of my life,

each object a sharp reminder of a thing i had lost,

and each day a sinking reality,

that i can no longer write.

my mind is plagued with you,

my heart tarnished,

my head aching,

my hands itching to be held.

but once again, i cannot write.

i cannot properly spill my emotions upon a page.

my poetry has ceased,

as if you were the sole reason i wrote,

as if your very being was the last thing

keeping my pen moving,

and my writing alive.

and how do you feel my dear,

knowing that you

have just killed a poet?

x