I don't think all writers are sad, she said.
I think it's the other way around—
all sad people write.

Do you know what it is like,
to lie in bed awake;
with thoughts to haunt
you every night,
of all your past mistakes.

Knowing sleep will set it right -
if you were not to wake.

Love is a game
of tic-tac-toe,
constantly waiting
for the next x or o.

Every letter
that she types;
every keystroke
that she strikes-

To spell your name
again and again,
is all she ever
wants to write.

She lends her pen,
to thoughts of him,
that flow from it,
in her solitary.

For she is his poet,
And he is her poetry.

There is safety in numbness–
there is solace
in sleep.