i am writing and writing but nothing good is coming from these ink stained pages. the smell of lemon grass surrounds these brick walls and a feeling all too familiar fills my soul. flashes of bubbly laughter and eyes so alive. the sun shines through the window casting light onto the walls surrounding me, but despite all of the light all i see is darkness. despite only writing about the good, about the soft and warm things, about love and lust. despite thinking only of your hands tangled in my hair and your lips deeply pressed against my neck, the things that should set my skin on fire but instead leave me ice cold. unable to feel the warmth, trapped in the winters of yesterday, my favorite sweater no longer bringing comfort.
maybe i am lost
maybe i am alone