Dried petals

#4

I remember the day
you surreptitiously
stole the pen from
my stricken fingers,
like a crafty thief you
tiptoed through the
tumults and roars of
my stormy mind and
into my so clement
heart.
my home used to lie
among the verses of
poetry, now my soul
won't belong anywhere
but in the reflection of
your nebulous orbs.
the hands that once
sewed words together
to form metaphors,
can't seem to recall
how to hold a needle
anymore, for your
touch always leaves
them trembling.
the tips of my fingers
that fell in love with
painting the evening
sun, today they
only paint your face
that's buried deep
within the fragments
of my memory.
I can hear the empty
sheets yelling at me
to pick up the pen
and spill my ink,
I can feel them craving
its taste, I can sense
their longing to feel alive
once again. but your
hand is holding me so
tight, and your eyes
don't want to set me free.