your lips
used to write poetry
against my skin

but now
i can't feel your breath
on the curve of my neck
and i have nothing
to read

Your love
is a gift
I am not worthy of.

It has been sometime,
Since my pen has hit paper.
Since my words were expressed,
By voices unwritten.

It has been an exodus void,
For my heart...
Has made its collision.

Pain rips through me,
When my words are written.
To the page.