The words stopped one day, like a pen out of ink scratching last attempts into paper that was already torn. I'm not sure where the words went, if they left me or if I left them. It wasn't a messy breakup full of harsh phrases and descriptive door-slamming scenes. No, our end was more like a silent drift. Our daily meetings became weekly, and our weeklies became arduous. Gone was the secret notepad open at all times on my desktop, hidden in a jumble of letters so the boss couldn't see. Gone were the lunch hours spent huddled over a legal pad in some parking lot surrounded by trees. Gone were the nights when I'd lose track and find myself clacking away at 2 a.m. To be honest, I only really miss the memories. Attempting the act seems unnatural somehow. Forced. Much like reading this must be.

Life is good in these days without words. My car is vacuumed. My checkbook is balanced. My workplace is well-organized and my laundry is done...well, mostly. I wake before dawn and prepare well-balanced lunches for my daughter any myself. I scrimp and save and track every penny in my spare time. I've become more fond of Excel than Word. I've got a relationship that actually seems quite real. I don't go to bars and make up stories about all the random people there. I don't scribble thoughts on the backs of receipts. I don't sit under trees losing track of time. I don't think I'll freelance once day. I don't think I've failed because of my legal gig. No, I'm realistic. I'm organized. I've got everything on a lovely schedule. There will be no more impromptu diner napkin poetry or matchbook haiku. No. No. No. Dreams must die with age or we'd be young forever.

The words were the first to leave me. What will be next?