I looked at my hands, they
weren't stained with ink, they
had no evidence that I
wrote; that I bled, they
didn't smell of words filled with ache, they
sat there in my lap, taunting me, they
were subject to my solitude. They
sat there numb as I realized
my worst horror, they
spoke what I could not stand knowing.
The words had escaped me,
I had been robbed of the only
thing I held close to me.
I sat there; quiet.
I knew it was happening.
And I was alone, as
the words I once wrote
deserted me,
left me for good,
left me of their own accord.
I was on the shore 
as the sea came rushing to me
mighty in all its strength,
she took away my words; my
words, she took them away,
she drenched me with her salt, 
the salt opened my wounds
and this time I did not bleed.
I could not bleed, for my words were gone.
And so were you.

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