There’s a bookshelf inside of me, kept empty for books that only you could write before you gave up writing for me.
I lay the tip of my metaphorical pencil on my metaphorical piece of paper. I know all the lines and all the curves I want to draw, but I can’t seem to bring order to the chaos they have stirred inside my head. Something is amiss and it has been so for a while now, for much longer than these phases usually tend to last. It worries me that I am completely lost.