I tried to write. But I couldn't. It just seemed so unnatural, so unreal. It felt like I was living with a broken spine. I tried to write, but it seemed as if someone took away the vocabulary that I had earned myself, snatched it and threw it away, far and far away. I tried to write, but it felt like I lost my will to bleed words and paint a beautiful picture with it. It felt like I forgot how I used to weave sweaters and mufflers with my words and provide my warmth to people who read it eagerly, just like having hot cocoa on cold winter mornings. I felt incomplete when the spark was lost, just like how your vanity case is without your Russian Red lipstick and your beautiful face without winged eyeliner and a blush that contoured your face. It felt like someone I loved so dearly stripped me off my clothes and show cased me out in the open for the world to see. A feeling so helpless and useless, I'd start to feel like the trophy wife that the billionaire across town possessed.
   I tried to make sense of the gibberish that I did end up writing, but it seemed so alien, so foreign, and as familiar as a person in the Saturday evening markets.
   So this was me minus you. A collection of flesh and bones, a hollow, but beating heart and an empty soul.
   This was me minus words. A hand that forgot to dance with a pen and paper. A stomach that did not flutter after seeing black ink on white paper.
   Me minus everything I loved, maybe still do. A mortal as insignificant as the moss on the rocks by the river.
   The world minus me. It hardly makes a difference.
   Or does it?