The pen is gone today, but the words do not stop

Assalamu Alaikum Dear Steemit Friends, Hope everyone is well, healthy Alhamdulillah. I am also fine Alhamdulillah. Today's article is a little different. I am going to share my feelings with you.

The pen is gone today, but the words do not stop…
It is a mystery! Otherwise, in this silent morning—when the city is asleep, and the birds around are still sleeping on their wings, why did I suddenly feel the need to write? The urge was so strong that I became restless to pick up the notebook and pen. But the cruel irony of fate, I cannot find the pen! Who knows where that little thing is hidden—it seems to be sitting in some corner and silently laughing at my restlessness.

Nevertheless, I must write. The words are marching in my head, with a touch of pride in their voices—they want a vacation, they want to be freed from the white field of paper. If I do not write, do the words remain imprisoned? I think yes—they may keep roaming inside me, and I too become a cruel jailer. Will I one day be punished for their imprisonment?
I turned the whole house upside down, but I couldn't find the desired pen. But that day—on my birthday—she had gifted me a wooden pen with my name engraved on it. What a wonderful moment that was! There was a quiet smile on the corner of his lips, which probably meant, "I gave you the best gift of the day." I always keep that pen in my bag or on my desk... So is that gone today too?

Yes, she is gone today, and maybe the pen has gone with her! Is that what happens? Maybe it does. When a person leaves, the things that accompany his memory also disappear one by one—at least from before my eyes.
Finally, when I was giving up after searching for a long time, it was as if fate smiled and put the pencil next to me—my old friend. I thought, come on, whatever happens, today's story needs to be written today.

But what should I write?
Love?
Or separation?
Love, which began with the acquaintance of an unfamiliar face.
Every moment of becoming familiar was like an answer to the secret prayer of the heart.
And when that familiar face becomes unfamiliar again, the pain at that time is speechless.The moments of becoming familiar from unfamiliar may be beautiful, But the times of becoming familiar from unfamiliar are terrible.

At that time, it seems that the world itself retreats—only emptiness before the eyes.
There is no answer, Only a few tears flow in a torrent—silent, yet they become language.
Today, there is no pen, but there are words.
She is not there, yet there are feelings.
Maybe this is how one can live, not by not writing—by writing.