tangled words

There was a time when my fingers hit the black-and-white keyboard and
words flowed out in swirling colors.
Beautiful.
Magical.

A time when those colorful words
laced
wove
intertwined.
Like hands, finding one another and
squeezing tight.
Like vines with tiny pink flowers, scattered in
just the right places.

A time when they fit with one another
and I read them and I smiled, because they all
clicked together
worked
no mistakes, everything where it was
meant to be.
Neat
Perfect.

But someone went and
rearranged my sentences
sucked the color from my words,
pulled their hand away from mine,
plucked every flower from my vines of poetry
leaving my words hanging.
Limp.
Tangled.
Mussed up.

I look back and I
swallow and I
know that someone was me, and I
look at all the words, and I
try to fit them together like a jigsaw puzzle
but they're mixed up
mismatched
too small
too many
too much
for my fingers to fit together
like they could before.
Broken.
Sad.