There is nothing left to say. No more poems left to write. No more letters. No more quotes to share. I made the promise that I wont write about you yesterday. And now I realize all I write about is you. Out of love? Out of fear? Out of years of being your one? I’m not too sure why but there is nothing left to say. If I can’t write about you, then I can’t write in general. It’s a skill, a power you have over me. I write about you. That’s my energy, that’s my focus. I love you. Always will. Why the fuck has my life become a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel?