I am writing nothing.
Contentment soothes my soul but
stops my hand on the page.
Memories of you make me smile
And the strong emotions of
Yesterday are forgotten
As you and I together
Ease three months of torture
At your hand.
My mind is young
but I have scars still, from
Both them and you.
After fighting through mud and swamp
To reach where I am now
I have come out clean.
The dirt and muck must have
Gone somewhere.
We can't find them
And are okay with pretending
They aren't there.
I look to the future and, for
The first time I see nothing.
Not you, or me, or anyone else.
Swirling silver and white
With no definite borders or contours
Is all our futures hold.
The relief of a blank future
That we can fill in as we choose
Has soothed my soul
And stopped my hand on the page.
My hand returns to page and
I can again express the worry and
The guilt and
The doubt and
The fear.
My words are a sign that
There is something in need of diagnosis.
What is our diagnosis?