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I’m slowly forgetting the sound of your voice, the curve of your lips. I’m slowly forgetting the feeling of your arm hair brushing just slightly against mine. And with it, all these small inconsequential memories. I’m slowly losing interest in everything. I don’t listen really, I don’t listen to anything or anyone. Nothing excites me anymore, no small sparks of passion to keep me on my feet throughout the day. I don’t even really enjoy music either, not like I once did. The sound of it leaves me feeling, a tad bit numb. All I can do is write words, words that when formed together aren’t even good enough to be typed onto a blank page. But that’s all that’s left, a vacant space, a hole. I often wonder why it has come to this. It’s no one’s fault, but my own really..Why did I allow myself to fall in? Why must all beautiful things end in tragedy? Why must they end at all? For what is a writer without beauty? For what is a poet without tragedy?

For a poet without a muse, no longer has a reason to write.

But write they must.

And I will,

even if it means, no longer writing for you.

The Romantic

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Water spewing from the fountains in Italy or maybe it was France.

Another place, another time.

Somewhere on the Northern Hemisphere, where we met.

Surrounded by many,

but like none.

They didn’t know it,

but I did.

The sunlight kissed our skin from the heavens above.

Honey and pastel hues of pinks and blues,

back to the days, when I loved you.

What sweet undertones with ever growing addictive fumes.

There were many assorted delights,

in our picnic of two.

Where I enjoyed the simplest things in life,

like the presence of you.

Easily saying whatever it was that came to mind.

The feeling of your skin on mine.

The taste of strong ales and rosé,

my guess of your favorite of wine.

In this moment time seemed to stop

as if you and I could forever control the clock.

The perfect rhyme, a pleasing hymn, for a ever so bitter, but lovely end,

to the tale of the romantic and her imaginary friend.