there seems to be no words anymore.
whether beautiful or painful,
they have all become a blur—
smudged ink on paper.
what feels like my own handwriting
i can no longer recognize.

when did i write this?
poetry—
i used to believe
was what saved me.
but what happens
when i run out of words?
and yet still remember
how "love" was spelled so similarly
to your name
that i could never have told
the difference?

i cannot hold a pen anymore
without wishing
it was your hand in its place.
but it's empty,
this page.
and yet,
somehow—
i'm still bled dry in the end.