There is no greater tool that humbles you more than living without the one you love. Because the clay that shapes you is softened in moments of lamentation, and formed by the withered hands of a darkened heart; Shepherding words to a yearning pen for the writer whose soul is always found at the mercy of other people, and left in a sun-less room. Left to rot. Left to question. Left with hands that dig through open wounds begging for just an ounce of freedom, yet hands remain empty with passing time. Haunted by the “when” and “why.” Pacing like a madman counting how many shekels of hope still lie within grasp on the cold tiles of a bathroom floor. Having all your strength expelled with nothing else to give except for the final act of a wailing cry, not knowing if you are heard but hoping it is at least something. So you wait to die on that floor despising the sorrows, yet always finding a way to slow-dance underneath the buzzing of artificial light, and run your fingers through its’ hair like the greatest love you have ever known. And yet I still write… Never having thought that I may be killing myself slowly with every poem or essay I finish.