writer's block.

one.
'just promise me you won't write about this tomorrow.'
i nod as you unbutton my shirt.

three.
my journal has been under my bed for the past week
and we've been on the bed for the past week.
my journal has been on my mind for the past week
and you've been under my skin for the past week.

five.
'i just don't want to become another poem.'
i nod as you unzip my jeans
and when you fall asleep, i whisper into your ear.
['i just don't want to become another one of your girls.']

seven.
i used to carry a halo and the angels slept on my shoulder
but lately, you've been the demon under my sheets
and the inspiration for the poems i can only think in my mind.
you call me a shooting star because i made your wishes come true
but i'm really just a disappointing part of astronomy that's been breaking children's dreams.

nine.
my journal has been under my bed for the past week and i don't even mind
because i could only write about your experienced lips and looking up the cause of shooting stars
but it'd only be words we don't have and feelings we wish were there.