A dead space in my pen – an emptiness that has remained the same size, the same strength, for these months… no, these years. The stained air is stagnant, where the gel beneath, once ever-boiling, has cooled to a simmering sludge. So I write, only allowing the pen to lead me, into what I need to say.
He's gone (I cannot watch beauty broken and limping, so the sparrow is dead, and I am gone). I've made sure of it, and he's not coming back. It is strange, though, to no longer be telling him which flights I'm taking – to not know someone close enough and my age to care.
I need another story; or, I need to finish what I've sta