I want our story to be written in a book.
I want us to have a chance to be remembered.
Because love like ours does not walk by the street
or ride the subway
on normal days.

Perhaps,
it’s not the cold
that you hate,
but
the absence
of the warmth
of
a certain somebody.

But we are all
meant to die.
And your heart, all of ours
  will never
live beyond us.
It will never pursue
or chase or recognize
love
without us.
And so
the kind of eternity
or forever or immortality
that
we all lust for
is meant to lose its breaths
whenever, wherever
we lose ourselves.

There are ideas
within me
that demand
to live
as words and letters,
that long
to be entwined with
the blandness of paper.
But as soon as
I grab hold of my pen
to make these true,
those ideas
leave me
just like everybody else.
They leave me
empty
just like everybody else.

I guarantee you
that
Love always stays,
to hold you
until the last of your days
or at least
in
old photographs
and
fading scents.

I can never
really complain
of being hurt
when I know
that
we both are.
Instead,
I can only ask --
"What have we done to each other?"

Some feelings
are just like echoes
-heard by nothing
but air
and returned
by nothing
but walls.