my fingers would remain silent
the notebook wouldn't feel the longing to be written on
my eyes wouldn't experience the sight of only a sea of blue above me, with thousands of white polka dots covering its surface
my mind would still dream when the moon sings her lullabies
the guitar in my attic wouldn't see the light of day
and my hollow domain would require a prescription of permanent anaesthesia
to numb the trauma of the poison i was desperate to taste

if i hadn't met you