I can't help but think that the ink
Of my pen is only as temporary as
The air that I breath. Whether that
Makes sense or not, I don't know.
All I know is that I need to write
Better. And maybe in doing so, I
Can forget about him. Maybe I can
Forget his face, his hair, the scruff of
His stubble that I long to feel...
His arms that I long to warm and
His chest that I long to rest my head on.
And maybe it's best that my hand races
Across the page as I write of him. Better
To have shit handwriting for once.
