I try to not frequent places where you existed.
On the days when there are parallel universes,
When Octobers are permanent,
When every night seems near fatal,
When the emptiness in our silence
mocked the leaves we trailed through,
Sundays are far off and foreign.
And as far as I know,
there is still an
“I”
that dwells with
“You.”
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
I try to not frequent places where you existed.
On the days when there are parallel universes,
When Octobers are permanent,
When every night seems near fatal,
When the emptiness in our silence
mocked the leaves we trailed through,
Sundays are far off and foreign.
And as far as I know,
there is still an
“I”
that dwells with
“You.”
Request permission to use this poem