Dear writers (and artists and songwriters and poets, etc),

Tell me,

When the thing that drives your heartbeat no longer belongs to you

What do you do with the things you made?

Because surely, most of your work is based on this particular muse

Because I see things laced with love and adoration

And I wonder

I wonder

When that adoration no longer exists in you

How could you possibly look at the words you wrote with tenderness

Or the masterpiece you painted in their image

Or the song you painstakingly pieced together note by note in honor of the way they kiss goodnight

And not want to destroy it?