Untitled #128

I haven’t written in 92 days

the river of inspiration is as dry as my uncapped pens

and the words are knotted 

at the pit of my throat,

a jumbled mess of syllables,

a Scrabble board in mid-game 

shaken by the earthquake of emptiness



For the first time in 92 days I want to write


I want to write poems that burn the surface of his heart

and leave oddly shaped scars that he’ll habitually touch

when he stumbles upon uncomfortable situations


I like to count how many times

he wakes up at night to switch positions,

always hoping he’ll end up

a few inches closer to me


and I’m trying to find the words

to describe the way

his face scrunches up when he’s dreaming 

but I can’t


his lips taste of cheap canned beer and cigarettes

I like to have his kisses 

for breakfast

especially when our eyes haven’t adjusted to the morning

and we’re still holding onto each other 

and the reminisce of the night


I like the way his fingers

get lost in the maze of my hair

when he pulls me in closer

subtracting the space between us

adding to the reasons my heart hurts 

when he’s not there


and I want him to know

how I get the slightest bit dizzy 

when he touches my skin

and how my crooked heart shuffles around 

to make space for all the things I love about him

and his words are constantly playing on all the right nerves


For the first time in 92 days

I’m picking up the pen without fear

I’m spilling ink again 

after running myself dry for so long

and he doesn’t know this

but ever since I fell in his orbit

flowers have started to grow again