I wanted to write you a love letter. The kind that twists your soul in to mangled shapes and bring tears to your eyes out of happiness or sadness or some emotion that I could evoke. Yet, here I sit with only a pen and paper and no words. You're the kind of person that makes me want to write love letters, but at the same time I want to write you letters of hatred and disgust. Disgust for the way you've turned me in to a mindless pile waiting for your every word and compliment. Hatred because I hate the way I have no control over how you feel about me. The hatred stems from a story you once told me. The one about the lovers that die. Shakespeare wrote it. Everyone wrote it and we all listened, but never learned. Your whispers used to lull me to sleep and make me dream in your love letters, now all I can see is the way you walked out the door that night after two too many drinks. Your words cut right through my skin leaving bruises on my neck where your lies strangled me nearly to death. My eyes could barely open, they had been sealed shut by the tears wept for you.
Sometimes the sadness creeps up and under my skin infecting every happy thought I ever dreamed of. The sadness sits on my fingertips with no where to go but the typewriter. Back and forth between written and deleted. Life and death. Expressed and confined.

I am feeling empty today. The kind of feeling where the sun is blocked by dreary clouds and the single light bulb hangs dimly above a dusty book tattered by years of dog-earred pages and late night readings. The kind of feeling where your heart rattles in your chest looking for something to cling on to in fear of falling to pieces. Emptiness belongs in scripted scenes where the heart-broken heart-throb lights a cigarette, sits pensively in the stained reclining chair with a beer in the other hand, but it actually exists in the side table by my bed. EmptyIt opens the drawer and crawls in to my dreams underneath the covers. It snuggles up to my chest and seeps in.