I haven’t been writing, lover.

Because when I write, I feel, lover.

So I keep myself occupied,

drinking coffee,

reading books,

magazines,

the ingredients in packaged foods,

dressing up,

going out,

trimming my fingernails,

toenails,

beard,

scrotum hair,

anything not to feel.

I’ve been watching movies,

television,

drawing pictures on dust covered surfaces,

anything, to stay distracted.

So don’t ask me to stop, lover.

Because when I stop, I feel.

And I may write, and the writing might be good but it won’t be worth the torment I anticipate, lover.

So don’t ask me to stop, lover.

Because when I stop, I may feel, and admit to myself, that

I miss you, lover.

I haven’t been writing, lover.

But I wrote you this.