I was the pencil that etched the silhouette of your love –
a shadow standing as a sentinel as you strode ahead.
I was your pen, inscribing these lines with the ink
of my tears – I tore away the initial pages of the first
love letters I crafted for you.

Love is blind… I don’t see much of you in either
of my thoughts or dreams.

How must I refer to you now, when all the references
on how to love were born from the moments we shared –
all the descriptions I experienced when it was still
me and you?

I only seem to see you now as just a silhouette.