I miss you, writing, when I haven’t written
in a while. I miss the blank pages and the smooth
keys and the smearing ink and graphite as they
form the words which rise from my mind and my
heart like an angry tide on a moonless night. I
miss the way your soothing rhythms calm the
storms which ebb as soon as I wrap myself in your
cocoon, the way you make me feel so warm and
safe, the way you  keep me focused and make me feel
alive. And I hate the wall which rises between us with every
day we spend apart, every brick which trips me as I look
back, reaching for the words I knew when we were
together, just you and I, under the dim lamplight and another
cup of tea drained from the pot when no one else was looking.

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