Rhyming words feels forced tonight,
Like my hatred for you.
I spin miracles with my black pen.
All that's left are tears streaming from
Face to paper.
Static thoughts pierce my mind tonight,
And I cry.
I can't quite write tonight.
There are words, but only the ghost
Of them.
I thought I had buried them looking ago.

I drink out of the bottle,
Desperately,
Like a baby does in its blissful youth.
The tools are ready, but the craftsman is off,
Broken perhaps.
I try again, but all that's left is my trembling right hand, and the fact:
I can't quite write tonight.

I spit out vowels and consonants,
I'll try and give it one more go.
First one word, and then the other.
Wait, yes, there's hope.
A sentence exists,
And I feel bliss, until I read what it says.
I miss you.

****.
I can't quite write tonight.