Maybe one day, I'll stop writing about you.
That day will feel new to me—twenty four hours will pass without you bothering my mind.
I wonder how I will feel.
Free?
Finally free—Free from hopes and what ifs with you.
My pages wouldn't speak about you. My pen won't write about you. My hands won't be familiar with the alphabets of your name.
Free from you—and the feelings I have for you.
I will soon stop writing about you, and I am dying for that day.
YOU ARE READING
A.A.M.
PoetryTo the one whom my heart had chosen to stick with for the last eighteen months.
