You asked me once,
if I'd written about you.
I'd smiled as I shook my head.
With every word I write, a part of you settles on the page, amongst the ink that never dries fast enough.
Leaving smudges across the page.

I used to believe the reason I picked up a pen, sprawling ink along a once pristine page was to rid myself of you.
Word by word, drawing you out to settle amongst the ink that never dries fast enough.
I reflect on a night, spent with a lover.
My hands refused to settle,
agitated by the urge to write.
Long, shaking lines made up the letters trailing around my bare legs.
A whispered voice calls me to return, the urge is gone.
Perhaps the writing isn't for the abandonment of you. Perhaps it is the last of you - all I have now.
Muddled amongst the ink that never dries fast enough.