Not that I've not been writing, no. Just that it's not on this space. And I have my little black book. Poems and proses aplenty, but somehow different. Just different. Or maybe it's just me, in a different season.
Faded longings are leaves drifting
Slowly to the ground before
Disintegrating where they first grow,
As if they never exist.
(from my little black book - edited, of course.)
One by one they fall, till no more. Solitude echoes in an empty well of a soul. Then, there is calm...