How unfortunate it is
that words will be just words
if not sent to a lover.

If I spend my days
stringing verses together,
and weave them into threads,
would it be long enough
to travel the earth,
and arrive where you are?

Would you hear my sighs
in these tangled mess,
and think that these verses
are fruits of restlessness?

These fragments of truth,
imperfect and raw
are all that remain.
These clumsy lines,
void of pride,
and stripped of ego.