Picky

I still can't write about you.

I've lost the diary, the photographs, all the evidence that you really
existed, once.

Even my memory is eluding me, and I can no longer understand you,
understand us, or the feelings I may or may not have for you
still.

In this void, all that is left is this ridiculous inability to write
about you.

Me, verbal diarrhea extraordinaire.

And everytime I try to put you down on paper, bring you back to life in
simple words,
I [incomprehensible scribble; scratch; crossed out sentence; ink stain;
swearword] can't.