an old piece of paper;- rustic with words of verses to a
beautiful beginning with an awful end— a jealous pen,
towards poems that boldly write stanzas of love- starved,
drained, alone in the silence of a love life, a heart not to
beat for love- only to read about it again and again.

i am; a plain piece of paper- words, actions, desires…
all things searching, for a true love that only comes
much later. live a day, sleep over a dawn of love, and
departure a night crying about it, alone.