Dec 8, 2017
Not The Last of You
I stopped writing when you left.
My hands no longer recognize how to hold pens.
Instead, they crave.
They crave your skin, your hair, your warmth and I no longer recognize the smell of ink.
It scares me.
For I loved writing because writing was you.
Poetry meant you.
It scares me to think I might no longer recognize you because writing ceased to exist as soon as you decided to leave.
I'm terrified because my fingertips forgot its favorite places around the body of my favourite pen.
I'm beyond terrified that it's you I won't be able to recognize.
I stopped writing when you left for I loved writing just as I loved you.
And to ask what I love?
It's you.
I still do.
I've lost all my poetry,
But hardly and of your memory.