My fingertips are barren wastelands,
no mystical swirls of life preaching words onto an empty page.
...
This is what it is to forget how to write.
--------------------------------------

My stomach curls inward as the earth rolls beneath my feet
as the words leave me, a river flows to the ocean.
Passion colors my face, and I feel the aura of possibility.
It capers through my chest, and lays to rest next to my heart.

Feeling returns.

Fairytales come true in the time it takes a finger to stroke the keys,
and my world reverberates with the echoes of a lost love.

I caress words and let emotion carry the tab,
and I wonder

about the number of words whose throats I've slit,
by my lack of attention and foolish inaction.
As I search for words to fill the gap between my heart and mind,
they rush to me, and a more prodigal taste becomes inconceivable.

Who knew that the word could be so forgiving?