I often lie awake at night; haunted by unwritten words
My Muse is a Ghost...
Writing with the moon; one of my nastiest habits.
For now, my heart aches for the past; longing to bleed his raw, absolute truth to my pages.
He's back and forth; always watching from a better place.
A place filled with the promise his eyes held.
But he's gone cold; like a Winter's frosty gust.
And his unfinished business; is someone else's problem now.