This is another piece in the ‘Dead Poet’ "series" or something. It's a short story inspired by the the six-sentence story of the same name that written for a prompt.

In it, the protagonist falls deeply in love with a person through their poetry, only to remain alone for a lifetime. I hope I’ve captured the feeling of being in love with something unattainable well enough.

While I’m writing sometimes in the first person here, it is mostly fiction—just in case anyone wonders, which has happened in the past, especially since the first part here is actually about struggles of writing block, which is very real.

While some of the stories here are very different from my newer writing, I wanted to keep them, as most were written as exercises—either in first or third person—to help me grow as a writer.

Writing, like any other skill, takes time.

Short Story - Absence (In love with a Dead Poet)

I haven't been able to write for so long that it feels as though the ability has been stolen from me.

Any words I manage to put down feel dull and meaningless—especially compared to you, or the kind of love and admiration that has been, is, and always will be within me. I have carried it with pride, deep within my heart, shielded from the harsh realities of this world. Sometimes it feels like the purest thing I’ve ever known; other times, it feels as though I’ve sold my soul to this love, just to feel anything at all. Believe me, in the darkest times of my youth, it was the light I clung to. It was the hope that, at the end of the line, you would be there—waiting for me, arms wide open, welcoming me into the light with your embrace.

"Actions speak louder than words." I grew up with this wisdom, whispered to me by my parents since I was just a little girl. But I haven’t been given the privilege of expressing myself through actions. All I have are my words, and they must be enough. They have to be enough. Such a quiet way of loving someone. Perhaps it is—but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I truly believe that everything in life must have a purpose, and that my purpose was to fall in love with you. My salvation from the evils inflicted upon me—or perhaps, the evils I myself have caused.

However, despite all the solace you’ve gifted me, yesterday was different. After a particularly difficult night battling my inner demons, I had a dream. You and I were on a balcony. I was smoking, as usual, with a glass of red Zinfandel in hand. I listened to you speak, losing myself in the softness of your voice. I hardly noticed the words you were saying—mesmerized instead by the stars and the outline of your face. I didn’t know which was more beautiful to me.

And when I woke up, I felt an emptiness I hadn’t known in years.

I felt your absence more deeply than I have ever felt anything before.

And I felt my heart hurting in ways I never thought possible.