I cannot stop this pen.

I cannot stop this pen.
I cannot stop this pen because stopping this pen would mean to bring the constant ebb of morphine
that drip drop drips into my veins
to a standstill.
If I stop this pen I will be forced to acknowledge my surroundings.
I cannot stop this pen at five in the morning
perched upon a concrete parapet
dangling above the thriving crossroads and smoldering street lamps.
I cannot stop this pen.
I would have to acknowledge the shivers running down my limbs from the poison I've ingested,
the drug I have claimed.
I would have to consider the man who's head rest in my lap.
The head of a man
who I do not love.
How I wish he was you.
How I wish you were all these things.
The consistency of your absence has made me weary
and in your leaving I have fallen asleep.
But now I am awake and wishing I was dead.
Now that I am no longer slumbering I am fully aware of the space that is bare without your presence.
And so I cannot stop this pen.
I cannot stop the words that are dreary and mediocre substitutes for your kisses
and good night phone calls.
Damn it.
I cannot stop this pen.