I’m struggling for words.

It’s been so long since I’ve been able to push out anything remotely coherent. I’ve started therapy to try and work out some issues, maybe she can fix this writers block I’ve seemed to carry for years. Why would anyone ever want to be a writer? The imaginative and creative process is such a fickle thing. It’s quite destructive. I feel like shit when I don’t write and I write like shit when I do write. It’s so turbulent in my head. I wish I could explain. Although, I’m not some special flower, there is someone out there who knows exactly what I feel. So anyway, I guess the point is that I wrote a tiny little blurb. It’s about love or something stupid like that. Enjoy. Or don’t.
Your kisses, they taste different. They no longer breathe a world of life into my soul. They no longer set fire upon my skin. I don’t feel it anymore. That spark, the ignite. This may not be a bad thing. They taste like a fresh morning, a new start. They taste like sunshine after a rain storm, clean and lovely. The fever is gone, the rush, the vivid flames. Now it’s replaced with a safeness, a comfort. Oh how I love the flavor of 2 am conversations, of waking up slowly to find each other under the sheets. It’s a new feeling, a new journey that I’m finding to be a delight. Please, kiss me more often, I crave that new sensation. Your kisses, they taste different.