Writing you

I miss writing you, I miss the liberty of expressing us through you.

To not pour out the jumble of words that lays itself in immaculate design on a page is stifling, painful. Like a tree that is not able to bear fruit, like the clouds so full of rain, like a mother’s breast overflowing with milk without a child to feed. Its agony unfelt only to one who's carved the same path.

How could I have done that?

I have formed those words in my mind on my eyelids, on my tongue wetting my lips, yet I stumble when I face you, a blank tablet, a white screen.

I tremble, I quiver, and I die. As I face your open arms to embrace my thoughts and mind. Like a virgin bride. I await the moment when I put my finger to letter and pronounce the vowel that is so often voiced and screamed in the dark.

I ache.

Within me an ache lays,
deep in the vortex of my soul,
the abyss once again calls.