I can’t write when I’ve got you in my head.

Things don’t flow from pen to hand when I’ve got your face burned into my memory like the after-image of a camera flash. When your eyes are all I can see in front of me, and the scratch, scratch, scratch of my pen on the paper only suits to remind me that you have never written down my name.

My mind tells my heart that this can’t be real, and yet my eyes tell my mind that it’s got it all wrong.

I can’t write when I’ve got you in my head, because when I’ve got you in my head, all I can write is you.

It’s strange, the way you’ve taken hold of my mind and memory. The way you make everything else seem flat, and somehow dull, surreal. It’s strange, because really, I hardly even know you. And yet, I sit here, with you in my head, and I cannot write.

I’d ask you to give me back myself, to return to me those long hours of writing prose to certain musical memories. I’d ask you, except, for some reason, I enjoy living this dream.