God ******, I'm doing it again. I have been sitting at this desk for the last three hours digging for some inspiration. I'm sorry this doesn't sound pretty. It just doesn't come to me like it used to.

Ink doesn't write happiness out too well. My hand writing is messier than ever.

I remember when we would sit on the phone and bull-**** back and forth for hours. You would beg me to read you my latest rough draft, and I would try to keep my voice from breaking where I put too many commas.

You would speak so fast. All I knew how to do was lay back and listen to your silent full teeth smiles.

You are swollen floorboards under my feet and other metaphors I wish I could write down. We were, and still are, so precious. Much less a secret than January.