I sit silently upon our bed
the clock ticking in the corner of our room,
birds twittering to the melody of a late summer evening
and while the last sunrays enter our small house
I think of your soft hands and mellow lips;
I think of how you used to hold my jaw
as if it was the greatest you have ever held.
Time passes; the clock still ticking,
until its sound diminishes within the blurred pictures of my mind,
skies turn gray and birds fall silent
and I sit there, dry eyes and empty heart,
I sit in order to remember
how you said love would never be forgotten
and how quickly you forgot to call it love.
Sometimes I do not know why I write letters to you
again and again,
unread stories and untold secrets,
floating within the space of your fingers and my desk.
Maybe one day you will have the time to read
what has taken me too long to witness.