Inked Sins

To be loved by a writer is said to be a privilege
A muse immortalized in ink.
And perhaps it is.
Yet, to love someone so deeply that words flow freely
To pen poems in their honour
That’s a unique kind of privilege.
You see that person
And everything about them seems poetic
The world becomes more beautiful
You feel prettier
Laugh more
And every detail
Every nuance becomes a source of inspiration.
You can’t help but look at them
And wonder if it’s too good to be true.

A writer in love is a sight to behold
brimming with happiness
Like a river in spring.
But love, like a flame, can flicker and die.
And when it does
All hell breaks loose.
The world becomes a tragic stage
You feel ugly
Laugh less
And once-joyful details now shatter into pieces
Leaving behind a bittersweet void.

You continue to exist
But a part of you is forever changed.
The part that saw beauty in the small things
Now tinged with a sadness
Like a sunset with hues of grey.
You try to find solace in your writing.
You write of your grief
Longing
And shattered dreams.

And though you move ahead
A part of you will always remain
A prisoner of the love
That once was.