This is the last words I write to you,
I say goodbye.

I'm sorry to be a bother in your thoughts.
I'm sorry for trying too hard for you.

Do I regret it?
I do. I regret falling in love with my best friend,
and broke the beautiful friendship we had before.

I miss you.
I miss the old us.

Can you come back?

I need to write
I need to write
Im caged, I'm fragile
Im drowning in fright

Awaken my body
Please my mind
His timing is perfect
So, whens the right time?

I cant hear myself breath
I dont notice myself think
The pen is on the paper
But I'm the missing link

God, why cant i move forward?
What is the purpose in the struggle?
It is harder than imagined
To pop my comfort bubble

We were both writers.
You with a fountain pen and moleskin notebook  
I with anything I could scrawl on -tears always just at the edges of me
and in this way we began to author our life together.
We put pen to paper that first night
drunk on gas station liquor and on not feeling so alone.
Our hungry bodies filled page after page
with what I would come to believe
would be my magnum opus.

In your wedding vows you said that we would
“work together to fill the pages with
conflict, desire, pain and all that makes life real
so that we can appreciate all that makes life good”
You were not much of a co-author though
preferring instead to write alone at night while I slept
How many times did I revisit a previous chapter
only to find that you had introduced a new character
or a dark and bizarre plot twist without my knowledge?
Eventually these discoveries would become as predictable
as the indignant denials
eventual apologies
and promises that would always follow them

lather, rinse, repeat

Over years these edits and additions
would knock the air from my lungs
completely shaking my confidence as a writer.
With cramping hands I would try to rewrite the bad parts
though my scribble marks did little to mask the words beneath.
Words that once had flowed as easily and copiously as I had for you
now came only in fits and starts
each new chapter torn from the bones of my bones.
How many times did the ten eyes we wrote in
watch as writers block turned to writers rage
producing furious missives that would tear holes in pages without warning?
Still even as my teeth-torn hands turned arthritic
I couldn’t seem to just put down the ******* pen
Because it was our story
and because I loved it
and because I loved us
and because I loved you.

I ended our story with a semicolon
Its already faded form staring up from my ring finger
a reminder that I could have chosen to end my story but didn’t.
You once told me that a good author always employs irony
and I have always been a better writer than you’ve given me credit

                                                   ;

we should not force ourselves to write
let the words come out
through emotions
because it needs to be written