I can't stop wasting ink on you. Your name clings, suspended from the tip of my pen as I drag you over the paper, again and again.
You always leave a messy streak on everything you touch, the stains on my coffee table.
And even with you gone its like you're always there.
Round reminders of what we weren't. Of what went wrong.
You had the knack of making me feel like everything seem cluttered, like i took up too much space.
And now you fill my room with crumbled up notes, sonnetts and apoligies.
You say it's inspiration but really it's invasion.
Every inch of you fills my notebooks, makes the pages cramped. Nothing has changed and I'm tired of writing about you.. how you always tucked your fingers in my pockets, as though you couldn't hold me any closer. The way held me in my sleep.
You ruined me and you left me with this endless cursive.. and odes to your lips.. the way they stayed closed.. suspended and let me walk away.
My margins are full, there is no room to breathe, my heavy pen reminds me of the weight of your hand in mine.
Now I'm miles away and you're all over my paper. Wasting ink on you.
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