my handwriting changed
after you left.

now, it runs rightwards
as the words strive to
escape my pen.

now, any letters that
stand upright
are left so very empty.

now, the ink i use is blue
because i needed a break
from the black-and-white
i used to live.

now, i showed someone else
the things i'd written
for you.

she told me my words
could be beautiful,
even if i only write
in the margins of
old books.

my letters dance, now.
just another thing
that changed after you left.

(they are still not enough
to tell the paper what i hurt.)

(they are still not enough
for my forgotten regrets.)