Blank

Blank. Trying to write and drawing a blank, trying to fill all this empty space. A year ago, I’d have filled it with you. A year ago… or maybe two? Or maybe three, or maybe four— honestly, I can’t remember anymore. What I can say for sure is that filling the space ends up being such a waste— of time, of rhyme, of uphill climbs, of running through woods, getting scared of the vines. I wasn’t scared of vines. I was scared of the bridge. The bridge you built when we were just kids, and the book you burned when you said, "It is what it is." You can’t write novels on ashes, can you? Maybe just the word— "Sorry." Sorry for burning the book, or sorry for writing it at all? I’m searching the soot for clues, and realizing— the soot is the clue. There’s a difference between ashes and empty pages, between unfinished novels and empty spaces. You burned your book. I kept mine. The difference between us is in between the lines. You’re writing a new book, and the ashes are gone. I keep writing— and won’t move on. I refuse to burn the book. It’s how I’ll keep from repeating history… something I’m afraid you’re already doing.