The pages afforded glimpses into my soul where I'd hidden it, behind masks of paper and ink.

And so I just kept writing to myself.

the caress of each word becoming        
         one 
  with the page
twisting 
         beneath the touch of the pen
                     forming 
a trail of permanent kisses
                  until they reach 
me

When the ink runs dry, you're most likely writing at the wrong angle.

Writing is the indelible fingerprint of my soul on paper.

We weren’t that different after all, our souls laden with the same ache of loss, our hearts bursting with the same longing to save what remained of all we loved.