I stopped writing because you left. You. You, the one I called gravity, the one I called love. The dragons went silent when you left. There were no more lightnings, no more storms. Nameless creatures that travel through folds of shadow took wing and disappeared into unknowable dimensions. You left, you took everything, I place all blame on you.
I am ruined--as grief ruins spirit, as wind wears away stone--yet it is still you who I want. I want only to write stories of you. I want only to write stories for you. Everything else is hollow, without depth, and terribly, utterly grey.
