Poetry whispers in your ear asking why you always come home late.

Why you never touch her anymore,

Why you don’t smell like spilled ink.

So, you caress the clavicles of her lines.

You tell her you don’t know what happened.

That lately she has started to feel like a job.

That you are too busy to hold her.

You tell her that her voice is a hurricane

And, you don’t think you can handle lightning or stormy eyes any longer.

That sometimes, you only write

Because you feel like you’re supposed to.

For some reason she doesn’t listen.

She sits silently by the fire place next to your favorite pillow.

Notebook in hand,

Hoping that maybe today you will touch her pages.

That you will love her like you used to.