Being a writer means feeling the burn of an unrequited love.
It means you will love something that can never really ever love you back.
You’ll send out your love letters into the void and wait for the silence.
You’ll wait for the shoulder to chill, to freeze your cheek.
You’ll hold onto your love well past the point of reason,
well past the point of prudence.
You’ll look through windows and you’ll yearn to be inside,
curled up to a warmth you will never really feel.
You will try to break down doors but there is always another door.
Always another lock.
Maybe you have a key but it will never fit them all.
Every once in a while, you’ll get a smile or a nod.
You’ll feel a sudden thaw and you’ll rest your temple against it.
And, you’ll remember, “This is why I love. This is why I write.“
But this is also why writers are crazy.
And, maybe stalkers now that I’m thinking about it.
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