I don’t even know what to write anymore.
I’m starting to lose the gutwrenching
that made me fill up twenty pages a day.
I get so tired of inking about
the freckled maps on her body
and the static I felt
every time my fingers
to find my way home.
My words are so stale.
If she kissed me now
I promise it wouldn’t taste the same.
Only of Silvers
and other pieces
of other forms
of porcelain that I couldn't keep.