At the expense of a small wrist dance, I forgot what there was. I forgot the posture, the safety as words hug me, the comfort, the stream falling down my eyes as I hold a pen to write, how it takes the venom out of me, how it kills the illness, suffocates the worries and ease the pain. I forgot the healing at the end, how I read the self-made prescription, wipe up the tears and meet a sense of closure, moving on.
I'm asked to write, and it is quite funny, I must say. I can't help but think about how it would've been recklessly easy for me to grab a pen and write endless pages about you as a topic on which I had much to say. Because You are no longer here, and so is my inspiration to allow that swift gesture.
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