The tip of the pen gently grazed the thin sheet of paper; but this time the ink wouldn’t flow.
He sighed, and walked away.
So much had happened, yet so little has changed.
He had written for the past twenty years, of anything that inspired, saddened or brightened his life.
But he had never written about those that truly mattered.
Today, he wished to try.
Her kisses fell like snowflakes; chilling the fiery impatience that boiled in him.
It hadn’t mattered to her that they had sold their last pieces of spare clothes; it didn’t worry her that their roof was just the naked skies.
But he had turned away then, just like he did today. He had walked away from her in pursuit of his dreams. And she had let him go; with eyes so red, they burned through his heart.
He had slept under bridges; hid behind shadows; fed on stale air – but he held one belief: some day, they would hear his words; they would buy his story; it would bring the luxury he wished to bestow upon her. And it all happened – they turned, raved, and marveled. Success found its way to him.
He returned, but she was no longer.
They say unknown diseases had claimed her,
They say she had left in convalescence.
He asked, but no-one knew.
He cried, and no-one heard.
Definitely a best-seller; most definitely a deal-clincher.
This man must be a genius, they say
But they had forgotten his past, or theirs –
The days when they had once mocked at his poverty.
For this girl, this girl he writes about today – they ask –
Who is she? What had she been? Where is she now?
Why did she deserve these lyrical text
When each he wrote could draw millions?
What was to them a pecuniary tribute, to him was pain that could not be compensated. And all there was, were words that described and detailed his eternal loss.