You call a few miles away from me far
Hoping I had left something inside your car
For some small excuse to see me once more
To drive back to me and open the door
Voices trembling, fighting back tears
Do goodbyes get easier with ongoing years?
No, I doubt it, they never were free flowing and nice
We say one more hug, but we always do twice
I can't tell you that I'm going to be strong
My heart does get weak when I know that you're gone
But still we press on and I yearn for you
And you call on me then and I know you yearn too
But when we do meet again, finally, all is right
You hug me so tenderly, kiss me goodnight
That I forget all that our visits are temporary
That when I'm alone, the real world is scary
That time is so precious, and that you are too
So close to my heart, I'll always keep you
So when you call me, I reply with voice cracking apart
"Yes, I left something with you, please bring back my heart"

She’s a writer.
She’s doing time, handcuffed in the dead of night,
locked up in prison with just the lonely voices of her mind.
And the demons of her past are wardens,
floating in corridors, keeping her in sleep deprived misery.
She’s a writer.
Every word she scrawls is a letter to her broken heart,
because with all due respect, it is an idiot.
It falls for the wrong people, it longs for the wrong places.
It shatters and she is forced to resuscitate it daily.
She’s a writer.
She didn’t choose it, every poem and story is a risk.
Work is accomplished by the light of constellations
and ink is just the blood of her soul pouring out on a page.
She is brave, in one of the quietest possible ways.
She’s a writer.
And that’s how she stays alive.