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.
Oct 10, 2020
Oct 10, 2020 at 1:58 PM UTC
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.
