I pick this pen up to write,
but before I make a single mark,
I know there is nothing I have to say.

What I could say is nothing more than...useless.
I could talk and scribble some of the
awakening thoughts down into some verse, prose,
or poetry.
But why?
I know of this...for lack of a better word...
pain
I feel.
It is mine, and only mine.
Like she was.
I know where my thoughts wander.
I know what everything reminds me of.
I know.
Why should you?

Why should I bother sharing?
Even if someone cares,
I don't
if it's not her.

I want to fix myself.
It's all I've ever wanted,
all I've ever striven for.
I try.
I tried.
Every day,
for her.