I don’t always like to write my words,
But I know I want to immortalise them,
I know I hope in 200 years young romantics search out old books still,
I hope one finds my words written,
Scrawled in my messy cursive and curled
up in leather-bound book,
With ink smudges from my eager hands,
And they read,
So they know in their future lives,
You are the one I loved,
Whoever you and I are,
And smile,
And we live on.