Spilled ink like passion across the sheets, caressing her curves in every love letter. Kissed up and down her thighs in short sentences and prose. Tasted all her innocence without a spoken word. Bit her lip and pulled her hair between the lines, making her arch her back and scream, all with a pen.

The room was silent, save for the scratch of my pen and the whisper of the paper. Each stroke, each word, a brush of skin, a murmur of desire. I traced her silhouette in paragraphs, every letter a gentle touch, every comma a pause to breathe her in. She came alive in the margins, a ghost of ink and imagination.

In the quiet of my room, she was mine. No barriers, no boundaries, just the raw, unfiltered connection between ink and page. Her laughter echoed in the rhythm of my sentences, her sighs in the spaces between words. I felt her shudder in every exclamation, her heartbeat in every period.

Every letter I wrote was a caress, every line a lover's embrace. She unfolded beneath my pen, revealing secrets, surrendering completely to the dance of ink. I devoured her in metaphors, tasted her in similes, held her close in the clutch of a semicolon.

And when I was done, when the ink had dried and the passion had faded, she lay there, captured in my words. A masterpiece of longing, a testament to the love affair between a writer and his muse. She was mine, and I was hers, bound together in the permanence of ink and the fragility of paper.

The world is on fire.

I look outward from my couch.

The world has been watching me burn too.

Overworked, under-appreciated.

Diagnosed with the same issue.

How do we solve it?

No idea.

First,

I'll sit here, and write this poem.