Do you still remember how we stepped into the pages of a book and lost ourselves amid the world of romanticized words? I mean, do you still remember the time when we were writing our love story between the spaces of unbreakable compound words?
I mean, do you still remember the smell of the old books we used to get addicted to and how we fondly read them on our favorite wooden bench by the rusty, timeworn streetlamp?
I mean, have you already forgotten how it felt to turn to the next chapter of an underrated novel while our hands were interlocked with the mysteries of never-ending heartbeats?
I mean, I still remember how we embraced the warmth of "I love you's" and "I miss you's" and how they slowly turned into obsolete phrases swimming away from your tongue.
I mean, I still remember the bittersweet aftertaste of your kisses, of your tender hugs, of your love poems, of our love story you chose to burn to ash.
Darling, I still want you to come back for me; I mean, I still want to continue everything we have started – the bouquet of rose-scented words and the proses we once had read and we had written beneath the starlit ceiling of ever-burning feelings.
Darling, I'm still terribly in love with the heartache I once had felt while holding your hand; I mean, I'm still stuck inside a love-spangled book you have ended with tragedy. I mean, I should've just refused to begin our story when I still had the chance to create a better one with someone else – with someone who's way better than you, because now, my heart is already tired enough to write a new one that can make me end my broken love for you.