is there anything so inviting as a blank page, an idle pen? the silence beckoning to scratching scribbling and though the mind may cease to flow the hand still begs to fill vacant lines
oh, that sweet bitter taste of one more day hour moment the feeling of loss before it's over the difference of one more and one last caught between a smile and a silent tear tracing pain down my face a sob preceding the aching void oh, to be a blade of grass to grow and be mowed and grow again to not know pain or the heartache of leaving a lover behind