untitled.

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If I write on floral paper will my words sound sweeter?
Will they ring with gentle laughter and tales that make you smile?
I write frantically in the hope that a page with lacy edges and a silver sheen soften the anguish when you leave me.
I pray for it to mute the crushing sound of your heart as I write that I’m leaving you.

You did this to us.

I cry because you left me, and I cry on days like today because the sun is shining and the air is warm and the breeze tickles my cheek.
But I asked you to go.
I wish to call you and suggest we have one of those wonderful picnics we use to have.
When we didn’t have any money, and it didn’t matter.

And your heart crushes on the page that I wrote you.
And the hurt leaks out, rippling across the page to seek out the pen as it scratches the paper.
I watch in wonder as the pen inhales it brutally
It undulates like a silent ocean rip within the ink, spreading slowly to the tips of my fingers
There it stains, as I tell you that I love you.

I’m leaving.

I flick through the notebooks, careful not to drop a piece of your pain from the tip of my torn nails
I pick another piece of paper and start again.
I find the prettiest piece. Its blue. Softly blue.
But there is that sound, loud and clear as I write with the leaking pen and my stained fingers.

I’ll never stop loving you.

It’s your heart, crushing on the paper.
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