I think losing you was losing my writing, as if your razor tongue ripped the very thoughts out of my chest and tore them to pieces.
What do I even write about? Can you tell me? Maybe just let me lock your caramel eyes onto mine, pretty girl, that awkward hesitation. I need it, to fill this hole in my chest from which the prose would flow. Give me something, a spoken word.
Let me experience you again. Even if this time you aren't experiencing every inch of me.
Can you still write? Did I steal your skill as well? It's only fair for me to freeze it out of you, render you as useless as you've done to me. But I'd rather die than have that happen. I miss your poems, written on napkins and paper scraps randomly, as if they just needed to get out of your troubled head.
I'd kill to read them again, have your words on my lips and in my own troubled head. Fill me with the sin that we were, the shivering wrecks we became together. God, even holding the blank paper you gave me reminds me of your brillance, your way with words I was never brave enough to speak.
Just let me experience you again.
