I wish I could write poetry, cause I'd write it all about you. But you're not mine to write about anymore so now I don't have a clue...

Anymore.

Random words laced with emotion. Like silver lined clouds, sprawled across a page. Anger and rage bound together with hope and love take the stage.
Which won't hold any meaning anymore so I shan't even bother.

Well, why not? I'll give it a go.

Whilst I reminice the best of times. Where unrequited feelings were a distant memory, but now they don't seem so distant anymore I find.

Where my thoughts are confined, wrapped in vines so tight it's hard to confide.

These Thoughts... They rest upon my shoulder, with the weight of a thousand boulders. Yet I present to you this story, this allegory, as delicate as a dove, and as pure as it's feathers.

A lover's Peril is hard... for I am soft. An antithesis of sorts, but the feeling of pain is making me stronger.

For each time I find a picture, or a hand written letter is like stepping on a land mine. The shrapnel of memories dig deep in the battle line, yet I'll soldier on and look at every picture. Redefine... that loves not lost because I'll keep in touch with the best of times.

Where do I draw the line? I ask myself.... When the sweet tune fades away from the chorus line, I tell myself... When the lonely path winds from a jagged beat, to a single straight line, I tell myself. Both the end and the starting line.

Your not mine anymore, and I still don't have a clue. How a lover's peril fares or simply, what to do. But you remain at heart however, and that part is true. Which is more than enough, So I think I'll continue.

I am the blank page here, before you. An empty book to write at your will. And As this scene unfolds before you, memories pen stroke your cheap thrill.

As these words crash, and collide upon my barren page. Full of fragments of thought... full of moments of wonder.
You close both eyes, and open the third, just enough to see the splendor.

The words stain and etch upon the fiber of my being. Seeking, what they might leave behind.
A story perhaps? You close your eyes and redefine, and reassign the unrefined.

Feel the roar of the breeze as you clench your eyes. As she writes in me, she writes in you also.

An imprint in your thoughts. Whilst just symbols upon me. But How the power of symbols, on the mind can be.

You hear voices in your mind and the subject of time, is far more unconvincing than you could ever find.
For me, time is only of what has been written. For I do not possess thought or an abstract ambition. People come and go, and leave imprints in me. Of life, and love, and what solace can be.

Imagination wants what reality can't offer, a vision perhaps for which you desperately tether.
I know this too well, tis' a familiar feeling. As these markings in me are known also as writing.

The recipient finds meaning, which is forever undivided.
And I'm again a blank book, whose fate is... undecided.