Because you will live forever.

You will exist inbetween the pages of a private notebook.

You will sleep under the pillow with the handwritten poems.

You will live as a black art in the form of words.

But your name will never be mentioned.


Your sideways smile is etched in the mind and cannot be erased.

Your stolen, yet steady gaze is burned within the heart.

Your fingers that produces music from the tips are longed to be held.

But you will never be drawn, only written.


Your voice is the most precious music ever heard.

Your spoken words are poetry decorating the air.

Your laughter sends vibrations through the soul.

But you will not be heard, only imagined.


Despite all these,

You are real. You are here. And here you will stay.

Do not make me fall for you. For if I do, you will live forever. Not only in me, but in others as well.

And if this story will ever be done,

I will close the red, leather-bound notebook

and say,

Until Another Time.