Empty

The pages are empty,
Crumpled drafts, lying around,
The pen looks at you,
Mocks you, hates you.

It's easy to write about love,
The moon and the roses and the hundred different metaphors,
Her eyes and her lips and her hair,
And how much you loved her.

But we can't look at what we want to look at,
You can't forget the fantasies you create,
Ruffled hair, starlit eyes,
You can't forget the illusions you embrace.

You’d let go, you said,
Stop bleeding and love again.

Didn’t you say you would look through the lens of your misery,
And write about melodies unheard and stories untold?
You are still here, you, I,
We’ve never let go, hope is still there,
Even though love has gone by.

She wasn’t yours to begin with,
So why do you still cry?
The pain is still there, so you lie about things that had never been,
Creating fantasies that never could have been.

It's easy to write about love,
But you still can't fill the empty pages,
They stare at you, mock you, hate you,

Because they know,
You can write about love all you want,
Empty feelings could never fill them, no matter what you want.
You’ve already let go of love,
Now it's time to let go the forlorn hope.