He was the reason I wrote happy things. He created the happiness that was in my heart, all I did was lead it to my fingers and let the words spill out to the page. All of the metaphors and literary devices were sprung from him and the inspiration he gave me to move my fingers. Now he is gone and so is the happiness that was in my heart, the happiness that was constantly flooding out of my finger. In place of him is a stone of sadness, refusing to move and blocking out all other potential happiness trying to weasel its way from my heart through my fingers. The result is not good and sadness is all that comes out when my fingers start to move again, bitter pebbles with lonely words covering them in black ink. I try to move all of the pebbles but before I realize it, they build up like the millions of rocks that cover a play ground. Moving the pebbles is a hopeless chore with no solution, as soon as I try again the trickling happiness left in my fingers is clouded by the endless patches of lonely words and thick black ink produced from the growing stone of sadness lodged in my chest cavity seemingly swelling to close my throat whenever I see you, swelling to close my airway and steal the words from my tongue before I can tell you I love you. The stone of sadness reminds me you don’t love me, protects me from telling you how I feel. I just wish I could start to breathe normally around you again.