My fingers itch to write.
To spill a drop of ink on an untarnished page,
To stain paper with the thoughts inside my head.

But it's like my words are blunt.
They disallow me to speak,
Like the graphite that stops rubbing against paper.

The pencil is not sharpened.
And although my tongue is keen,
I know I want to write words you'll never see.

If you and I were a love song,
I suppose this would be the point
where I tell you that I'm in love with you.

But I'm not.
I am in love with the way that
ink blurs across blue lines.
I suppose you're my version of paper.

You are a parallel universe,
in which I can pretend there is no end.
But there was no beginning of us.

Although I'd like to acknowledge that
you know who I am.
We know each other but
it's not like how I know a pen.
I could never love you like I love to write.

Or perhaps I could if I tried.
I'm afraid that it won't be ideal for you
because it seems all I do is write about you.

You are the mystery that keeps my fingers itching
and I wonder,
if I lost you, would I lose my passion?

It's only now that I come to realise,
when my fingers move across a keyboard,
it is not my laptop lighting the keys.

It's the shine in your eyes when you smile at me.
It's the way that you move gracefully
and the way that our eyes might meet.

You keep me on my toes
like my very own version of a story.
It's even got me wondering whether you're fictional.

But you're not because I've felt your skin
and I think I ache for more.
For you to be close to me for once.

But I suppose we are the moon and the stars.
We are like my writing and me,
although we are one in the same...

I don't suppose we'll ever be.

Written: 13/12/2015