I am a writer, aren’ttt I?

Lines no longer seem to write themselves and words don’t flow out of my thumbs like they used to. My thoughts no longer feel mine own, tangled up in the ropes of the world, they strangle my heart sometimes until my ears cannot take it anymore.

Come back, I beg.

It’s been a long time now, almost as if you left me alone. Come back and show me what my eyes could once see. Look into my soul to pull out yet another string of heartfelt-tellitlikeyouseeitmixedupinsong-inarhythmlacking-thisisapoem-isn’tit? to point to my existence like the cathartic release of a steam-filled cooker. You left me alone to drown in this never-ending mess of thoughts that no longer feel mine own.

I reach out my hand,
hold me.

Hold me so my fingers can once again put pressure on the universal black ink that drives all our screens. I miss the clicker-clacker, the sound of you being alive. The sound of you still telling me that you loved me, that you were mine own to stay forever embraced in me. Laced up in my arms, curling through my hair and whispering in my mouth, weren’t you


And yet how could you leave me alone? Help me make sense of this ringing that fills up the silence near me, like a vat waiting to be stirred – an outpouring of meaning that had once a higher stage than sitting in a cubicle-style room with frosted glass droning on
and on
and on
and on
about all the problems in my life. I deal with them, don’t I?
I have a handle on things.

And still now I have to ask you to look back at me, to grant me a second of your presence so I can finish this verse-lacking-prose-poop piece – what does any of this mean anyway? Do you see me?

I think you do. I think you’ll always do.

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