I look at this blank sheet of paper and wonder, what is next? I had waited so long to meet someone to fill me of inspiration and I had him in the palm of my hands. I had him in his entirety. He let me explore his body, his mind, and his heart; all of which were better than any one I had seen or felt before. So I look at this paper and wonder how I am supposed to tell anyone of our time together, of our passion, of the emptiness you left when you said goodbye. Your existence is inspiring, but your leaving was even more inspiring, in the worst way ever.

There are many stories about love which came to be, love that lasted, stayed, and some which left. I think that perhaps the story of my broken heart would be entertaining to some. They’d look at me and my words, so grateful that they don’t know what it is like to be in my position. I feel like all I have ever known is this feeling right now. This longing, this ache in my heart that I feel will never be taken care of again. I want to remember what happened and why things fell apart, but instead, all I think of is this blank sheet of paper.

It reminds me of your pale skin. It reminds me of when I would lay on your stomach, looking into your eyes, trying not to laugh. This pale sheet of paper makes me miss your pale skin, which I always made fun of. This blank sheet of paper reminds me of the void I feel now. I want to crumble this paper up and set it on fire, fuck it for reminding me of you; of your skin, of the love you gave me, of the sadness that you left behind. Fuck this paper for reminding me of you and fuck you for ever existing in the first place.

You were the biggest inspiration for everything I ever wrote. You’ll continue to be the inspiration of what I write, if I ever manage to write at all, but instead of writing of my passion and the most handsome man, I can only write of dreadful things that no one wants to read about.

I look at this blank sheet of paper and wonder, when does it end?

 

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