Lighting the stuffed pipe I shook the match until its burning tip extinguished into nothingness. “You know” I began, puffing a few times to get a good cauldron of embers going before continuing “I was writing a story just the other day, or I guess you could call it a poem.”
“Oh? What about?” Asked my friend who was sitting opposite me in front of the fire place basking in its warm glow.
“Romantic love, loss, heartbreak and regret. All the usual you know.”
“But funny thing, I remember writing about such things ad nauseum in years past and it flowed effortlessly from the pen. Whether it was any good or not I can’t speak to objectively. But the point I’m stressing is the ease of working with heartache as a subject. It was the paint and the page was my canvas. I had it in abundance and filled up the canvas end to end.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve read all of them.”
“You have my eternal sympathy and gratitude. But with this particular poem I found myself at a loss for words. It was like pulling teeth getting the sentences on the page. I think I know why. It has been so very long since I felt the way about a woman in real life as I described in my poem that I couldn’t naturally produce it. I’m forgetting, old friend. I’m forgetting what it was like to love someone so deeply that losing them is like a nuclear winter. Losing the one you love is the pestilence which destroys your harvest…forever. But I don’t feel that for anyone and it’s been so so long. Would I even be capable of loving someone in such a manner?”
“Well…” my friend began.