I've written a dozen poems about you, the curve of your lips when you smile, the glow in your eyes and the spark in your touch. I've written even more poems about you leaving. The pain of being left lovelorn, And the vast emptiness you left behind. Now I want to write again. But there just aren't any words left to say, the ink in my pen has run dry. Because now it doesn't hurt so much, my mind doesn't wander off to you as often as it used to and now you're just more of a dull ache in my chest as compared to the singeing fire you used to be. I don't write to you anymore. This is farewell.