her pen is poised against the page
but she is wordless;
the ink is making an ever-growing stain of uncertainty
against the first blank line.
her eyes stare blindly into space,
mind grasping for something tangible,
anything she can write about -
anything she can reach but what's already there.
she's focused on one thing, even though she'll deny that
her heart is fluttering over what she cannot have.
her pen is poised and she's desperate to write
about anything but you.
a/n: i adore this. i don't even know where it came from... i was sitting around at a laundromat when suddenly the inspiration to write about not writing about him came to mind. out of my pitiful attempts to get over him (because he doesn't like me too) comes such beautiful artwork... maybe i should fall for people like him more often.