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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.

Burning Paper

The room is dark.

Lit only by the faint shimmer of a candle, burning.

I had wrote something melancholy, but full of life and passion for you.

I planned on leaving it somewhere I knew only you would find, but then suddenly I changed my mind.

Anxiety creeped up over my shoulders and and found its way inside. Underneath my skin.

Will he appreciate your words?

No.

Will he think of all the time that it took you to write such a profound letter?

No.

Would he…no he couldn’t possibly understand or care about the thoughts that dwell in your mind late at night that provoked such a letter.

The embodiment of romance, I thought or maybe it’s a representation of fear.

Fear.

That’s why it’s burning.

That’s why the faint shimmer has dimmed and the light that once lived has receded.

All that lives here now is fear and girl trapped in her mind, in a dark room