So she wrote.

She wrote.

It started as a drip, the pen resting thoughtfully on the edge of her paper. The ink bled, spider-webbing out, trying to reach as far as it could before it should dry.

She traced the blotch lightly with her pinkie finger, imagining that she could coax the story from it.

It simply remained silent.

She sighed, and she wrote. She wrote as writers do, with empty metaphors comparing love to the stars and life to the sun, so that it's always there but not always seen. She wrote with rhyming words and fruitful analogies, things to make the reader think.

She wrote. So regularly, like writers do. So that her empty words couldn't fill the gap between the readers' eyes and mind. So that the scent of honeydew words would lie on their tongue and leave only a taste, a lingering aftertaste of what they had witnessed.

She wrote. But she wasn't writing anymore. Because all though her heart still lay in the words in the page, it was cold and dissected, no longer beating with life.

And like the rest of the world, she wrote.



This piece was recently featured in the Newbie Newsletter. Thanks for showing my work off a bit!