Writer's block

I can't write. My fingers are typing but they're not giving any creativity. My words are full of ginger hair and long thin legs and words that don't need saying and are spoken only in glances caught after midnight. They contain every word you've ever said to me and the soft smile you give when you catch me looking up at you. Each syllable is another time your fingers are entwined with mine and each word is ridiculous. No, each word really is "ridiculous" and it's in your intonation too. It's like I'm accelerating towards an event horizon and everything I knew is being torn apart till I know nothing any more and time breaks down and I'm recycled into something new. I'm my own particle and antiparticle, annihilating myself. Or maybe it's the memory of you that's doing that. I don't know any more. I'm accelerating.