The scent of you still
on the pile
of letters written
years ago.
Pages of words that
could never fully convey
the many things felt and thought
paper memories set aside
yellowed by dust and oil.
To read them now
almost feels like an intrusion
upon another's passionate affair
in which I have played no part.
Those words
written with youthful eager
hand read like an
ancient romance
steeped in tragedy
the dialogue of which is
now foreign to me.
Oh, didn't we once love
so fiercely, so hopefully
for two people that are
now rumors to each other.
Oh naiveté, return to me
so that I may love again.
on the pile
of letters written
years ago.
Pages of words that
could never fully convey
the many things felt and thought
paper memories set aside
yellowed by dust and oil.
To read them now
almost feels like an intrusion
upon another's passionate affair
in which I have played no part.
Those words
written with youthful eager
hand read like an
ancient romance
steeped in tragedy
the dialogue of which is
now foreign to me.
Oh, didn't we once love
so fiercely, so hopefully
for two people that are
now rumors to each other.
Oh naiveté, return to me
so that I may love again.