Blank pages haunt me so. I want nothing more than my words to flow
freely from my fingertips. I crave expression worthy of her attentiveness.
I want to grant her a repose from the mediocrity of my anemically feeble prose.
But my words no longer shock and stop her heart, her knees are stronger and harder to make weak. And I know my words no longer impress her because they no longer impress me.