With a swift motion, he slammed his battered notebook up and threw it across the dimly-lit room. His hair was a mess and so was mine, but mine was messy in a way that screamed "wild" and his was messy in a way that screamed "tired". The blinds clacked against the window rhythmically, with each gust of the wind.
"I'm sick of this," he said.
"Sick of what?"
"Just... sick of this. What's the point? Why do I write love poems for people who don't even exist? In the end it's just a bunch of meaningless words on a ripped page that no one but myself reads."
And at that moment, I felt my heart shatter; because I had hoped that maybe, just maybe, one of those poems were for me.
*~j.c~*
YOU ARE READING
unwritten-
Poetry• written words from unwritten stories • {a collection of excerpts from stories i will never write and stories that have never been written but stories that still exist}
