And suddenly I'm dying for my pen. And these tears sting inside my head. But why do I want to cry? I don't even know. I just know that it's good to feel again. I still miss outside. But I can still feel the warm air. And now I am glad to have this spot to write. Slow and nice a rhythm, a beat, to compliment this music I hear in my head and out loud. Quieter now and my light is dim. My heart, so confused. My head, so numb. My pen, is it broken? I want to write hard and good. Or even soft and bad. I blame my pen for my head's mistakes. Stupid isn't it? And I can hardly breathe. So I'll shut my mouth and suffocate. Breathing deep inside myself. My own poison. In my lungs, through my blood.
And now I come to realize I'm still breathing. And I don't want to stop. It's good to breathe and good to be. But just me. No one else here to interrupt, my pen can fly and so can my thoughts. More rhythm, less rhythm. It doesn't matter how I write. It's good to move. Move on. My thoughts are switching from one thing to the next. And Spence is still there. So deep in my head. He'll never be gone. But he's so far gone. So what now? Did I finish that closure in my last three words? Yup. I know. So does he understand what I meant when I said it? I just feel like he wasn't listening. Maybe I didn't say it loud enough. Or maybe he's grown deaf. So now it's time to move on. Maybe he'll catch up. But for now I'm finally on my own. And I'm good with that. He still doesn't understand. My pen and paper. Such better listeners than him. He doesn't know how much I've grown and maybe he won't. I can still smile. It's been so long since he's been gone.
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