Because of you
I forgot how to write.

I used to drip with description.
They would try to bottle my tears
as souvenir.

I would scream at the paper
and it would color my anger,
punctuate my despair.

I could paint entire lecture halls
with the tangled mess
that came out of my veins.

Everyone knows that your prettiest,
most interesting and  intriguing
when you're failing.  

All of the geniuses,
the beautiful and the brilliant
thrived on torture

and it's so tragic,
the way they rely on us
to suffer for them.

But then, you.

As if life was suddenly fair
I wrote you into reality
and learned your language.

Summer stayed
and I no longer had the biting cold
as a muse.

It seemed I had nothing left
to say, and it's OK
because no one was there to listen.

But time is just as reliable
as you aren't.
People keep mailing me paper and pens.

So even thogh the mountains
and the moon
are staying in place for this one,

I'm blaming it on the dust.
This is  the stale, familiar taste
of waking up mid-dream,

when you try to keep everything good
under the covers
and away from the world.

I could go back to sleep,
or I could stay awake
and remember how to write...