your name bleeds from my pen.

it screams out from the pages calling for you to come near.

the paper does what I cannot do: call out for you,

ask you for help.

the paper tells you that I miss you, and as much as my lips wish to do the talking,

they cannot because of the throbbing pain attacking my chest when i say your name aloud.

the pages of my journal know all about you.

they know much i loved you and how hard it is to try to let go of something that once begged you to hold on:

to keep fighting.

i handed you the pieces of my heart and didn’t stop until there wa none of me left.

i was too quick to give, but you were too quick to take without giving anything to me in return.

when you find yourself fast asleep, I am awake.

awake writing love letters that turn into apologies that eventually seem to turn into self destructive letters full of self blame.

and even after my pen has nothing else to bleed, I still find ways to rewrite our story.

my story of you.

and i keep finding ways to try and rewrite you so i don’t have to let go.