What happened?

He has given me so much poetry that even after he left, the words still kept weaving themselves together.
As if they're filling the void.
As if telling me to keep writing.
To keep bleeding words onto paper.

But when I met you, it was blank.
No words.
No canvas to bleed on to.
No patterns of poetry.
Nothing.

I wasn't sad.

But neither was I happy.

I felt empty.
I felt alone.
Even when you're there.

You just stirred my sleeping feelings.
And never had the intention to fully wake them up.
You wanted me to keep on dreaming, but still be able to think about you. About us.
You want me to be there for you.
Yet you weren't available when I need you.
Unfair.