Scribbled

— a poem

Photo by Matthew Moloney on Unsplash

And it is I who traces
the lines that lead nowhere.
The ink pools on the page,
but my hands
can’t seem to stop.
We leave these letters
to dance on the wind,
scattered like thoughts
we never say aloud.

Every now and then
you catch me staring
at blank pages,
or fingers smudged with blue.
I love how the pen feels,
how it holds every piece of me
that spills out,
like water finding its way
through cracks.
But what do I pour it into?
A cup already full,
a page already turned.

I am writing.
I know the story’s not over.
With you.
Beside you. I know.
But until then
this aching need for words,
this silence that
presses against my skin,
begging to be scratched.