its as if things never changed.
'the ink ran dry', she says when the whim has passed
but the moment’s still fresh and achingly smooth --
a warm shawl of remembrance when the tongue,
of so many words and so few reasons, spouts lies.
she splatters the page with blotches; a varied mess,
construed with what little is left of her muse
and the sound of pages turning is replaced with
a chair skidding and a mournful sigh.
she believes it could have been.
‘i love you’ etched on the back of each breath
to what purposes become vague and disenchanted,
and so are the words she favors in constant disarray --
unavoidable vicissitudes of a spiraling life.
and she spins like a top, relishing in the fall, yet
never quite knowing if there should be an up again.
a change of pens, his beauty returned,
and a blanket for when the thunder cries blasphemy.
the world, though, keeps cycling on.
its as if the page documents each moment she’s alive,
the ink supplies all answers to questions unasked.
the alarm will ring, the day will start
and she will wear her skin out in scheming
in the changing of seasons and the sound of his breathing.
merely a matter of turning pages to understand.
it was never the pen. the ink was always there.
she simply had nothing left to say.
Gender:
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