Romance

There is a time I forget, a time

I cannot live ever in my heart, despite having lived through it

many times. Sometimes, I wait for you, an hour

and few hundred. You do not come. And I write.

For you, maybe, or for me. Who knows? These words were there

to be put forth on the wind, to be heard and forgotten. To be

said, and abandoned. Who knows what kinds of poems we write

in love? What do our deeds matter? The ones we cared about

are long gone, and will not look back. And there are no tomorrows, only

sad poems. Sometimes, we will also get some words together, someday

we will conjure you out of thin air- a few words, a moment not spent.

You know why I write- this hope that you will read it someday- long after

your minstrels are gone, as is your story, you know, some

part of me will live, and you with that. Or is it the other way around? That

I merely write to keep you alive?