I write until I have wrung out every drip
of a thought
until there is absolutely nothing left
to say
until even the driest deserts
seem prosperous in comparison

your face is stuck somewhere
in-between truth and
logical fallacy
I can not decide if you
were a dream
or something of substance

now my hands seem more
like mirror reflections
than of flesh and blood
I am afraid I have
written the life from
my veins