I tried to count the times I fell in love ,
But my memory failed to serve,
their meaning lost in time,
Each face, and memory were empty,
Lost in thoughts I pondered of long ago.

I reached for my quill and ink, to write forgotten lines,
To write down the echoes, jotted in tears.
Yet all my words were faint and torn,
A fabric ripped, both bright and worn.

My diary still waits, its pages empty,
The keeper of the love I wear.
But as I write, the truth unweaves
Some loves are meant to not be written