I sit down and begin the lines in my hand
Long, loopy letters scrawled on the page
Crisp whiteness disturbed by the black ink
And I stare at the same two lines for an age

Something asked about how are you
And said how you're utterly missed
All the words so meaningless and flat
All I think of was the last time we kissed

Sighing, I give up, wishing for better inspiration
The letters all folded up and put away nice and neat
You'll never get to see the sad, pathetic attempts
My trembling hand closing the drawer in bitter defeat

Pages full of wished but invisible words
Never holding quite what you deserve to see
So I set my quill down and I find another place to go
Ever wishing to be all you needed me to be





Penned by my hand on the 16th of Artificium, in the year 461 AD.