Writer’s block weighs on my hands like wet concrete.
There is an ache in my wrist and a light at the end of a tunnel;
There are some things that need to be said. You grip me
As if everything else is too heavy to lift,
You look at me with light in your dark,
Dark irises and I am still trying to fathom
How you can be both my reason to write and my falling apart at the page.