you somehow stop writing
when you
fall in love.
ironic. i know.
my pen is supposed to be
screaming.
I know.
you somehow stop writing
when you
fall in love.
your hand retreats
and resorts to touching.
the ink depletes,
you cannot force it.
the mind turns blank,
no longer
thinking.
the pages
with whom you share
conversation
no longer hear
how agonising love is.
they inherit the kind of
loneliness
that once consumed you.
loneliness,
the only reason why poets write
when they write.
you somehow stop writing
when you fall
in love.
ironic.
i know.