A Writer

   I yearn for this to be more than melancholy.
   Days have been stripped off my life--weary days, in grey sweaters, and dreary hats.
   I have lived and lived and I have hid from living. I have loved. I have loved so much.
   I once knew a writer and he loved me. And we had a precious love. We had a real love.
  And it was good.
  And then, it wasn't good anymore. And when it stopped being good, I stopped being good.
And when I stopped being good,
All the inky days bled together,
Until they became a gaping void
That soaked us up
Until we no longer existed.
  I have lost the love of my life.
  I have lost the love of my life.
  I have lost. The Love. The only love. Of my life.
They don't make pills for that. They don't make pills for someone being the love of your life, but you not being theirs.
  His story would be different. I am just another face. I am a watercolor blur. I am faint.
  He wasn't.

  He my monument.
  He was my solid step.

  He was the moment of my life that was so succulent, it caused everything else to become mundane.
  I used to love a writer. He had real roots, and everything.
  I lost all my self respect. I placed my light in the hands of a dark humanity. I didn't come out as gold,   but I did come out as a woman. I am still trying to understand why they said this would be better. I am flesh, and breath and tears. I am a series of imperfect things.
  I am the silent gray stillness of porch-swing days,
  When there is only cold concrete,
  And nothing to say.