When I picked up my pen
I wanted to write about comets
and galaxies and forest fires and whirlwinds

I wanted to write about
the way my morning coffee
resembled your dark brown eyes

I wanted to write about the way
my mother’s mascara and lipstick smeared
on the nights my father promised he would come home
but didn’t

I wanted to write about the beach;
how my thoughts were like the immensity of the ocean
and my joy was like the sand
how I let it slip right through my hand

I wanted to write about the way
you were like my cigarettes
and wondered why I loved
everything that destroyed me

I wanted to write about the way
the smell of your cologne lingered on my pillow long after you left
And how I found someone new
but still fell asleep to the thought of you

I wanted to write about the numbness;
the crippling way I felt nothing
and everything at the same time

I wanted to write about every thought I’d ever had,
To drown my demons in ink
And immortalize the act on paper

But when I picked up my pen,
I had a shaky hand