Somewhere in the transition
of my love for you and being
allowed to love you once more,
I lost my voice – gone were the
words that flew so easily from
my pen,  left instead to the blue
inked stains smeared across the
pages, crossed out and repeated
twice more until love itself had
become this illusion and I could
no longer convey my affection
without the promise of bleeding
my heart on the page, and in my destruction, my voice withdrew;
leaving behind thoughts I could
not put into words, strangled by
time and longing, as though upon
its death, the truth could be free.