i’d love to think that the words
will become black water and
flow
out
of
my
mind
into
the
pristine white
but every time ink touches
paper
there are only echoes of silence
screaming into
nothingness
a void of lost meaning
you are my muse and yet
you have inspired
nothing
instead, i write of shallow sunsets
and treacherous cliches
our story will never be told
because i will never share
what you mean to me
just a figment in my
mind
a suppressed memory kept
[quiet]
under the black veil
–of writer’s block–
my restless dreams are haunted
with memories of you
that i thought i wished away
on a shooting
star
i
can’t
escape
your thought
but i can’t share you
i can’t even
speak your name
without spontaneously
c o m b u s t i n g
