inside, the black hole still aches around the periphery when i think of you. it agonizes to hear how successful you are being while i am locked away in my room writing to fill the hollow you left by linking 26 letters together. thank you for revealing my new love for this talent when you ripped away our old love. though the real question is, which is more wounding to the soul? screaming at the top of our lungs for centuries until we collide into each others ams, like an amateur hurricane, or metaphorically shutting the door, and literally excluding myself from all social contact to remember you through the affair of stringing the alphabet together in an endless melody? writing for me is like some sort of drug, i feel so empowered while my fingertips dance on the keyboard and leave their blemish on the world, in every sense of the sentence, but so empty of purpose and oxygen after. in some sick and twisted way, i see you through the hole inside. maybe that is the purpose i write; to keep the black hole open wide. have we propelled each other so far away it seems there are dimensions between us? that shall be the method to my madness; that i have to inflict pain on myself to see you unrestricted.