They say, "If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die."
But what does the writer do when you leave?
And they sit at the desk. Scrambling words onto a broken book, drowning with whiskey and vodka, while the table suffocates under the mounds of crumbled pages and cigarette butts.
An ocean of books and journals flooding the floor.
What does the writer do when they want their hands to be smashing with yours and not the bottle. Or when they want their lips to mash with yours and not the cigarettes.
What does the writer do?
When they want to write something new, but can't because every entry begins with,
"I do not say this often, but I love you."
Let me paint you a picture with words in your mind that will show you how I see our lives together.
Or how our lives will go down in a spiral of thoughts filled with death if you leave me. Because I love you more than you see.
Or... Do you think you already know that?