Untitled 043

You stole my heart like a torn page of an old book. And I do remember how much you loved reading, So I wrote letters for you.

I wrote how delicate your hands when you're turning the leaf of someone else's novelette. You're too afraid to rimple its pages nor spill your coffee on the printed scriptures, But you're too careless...too delinquent when you tore mine.

I wrote how you spoke those words aloud like you're shouting a name and certainly not mine. The shout turned out into pleading. You beseeched for her to stay and for me to go away.

No more inkjet as you crumpled the parchment paper on your carving block, Like how it withered at the ends from the laxity you had spared it upon. I picked it up and placed it in my attic. Wishing written words can express parallels in the way speech may not be sufficient in doing.