I remember my friends, with tales they'd regale,
Of letters, texts, and notes that set hearts to sail.
With "xx" at the end, their joy they'd display,
I'd wonder if you, too, sent love in that way.
I longed for the day when you'd write one for me,
But now, I've moved on, set my heart to be free.
I don't even know if you're real or a thought,
In this world of uncertainty, your existence is sought.
YOU ARE READING
It's Still 12a.m.
PoetryAs the clock's final whisper embraced the dying day, darkness enveloped my room. Raindrops danced upon the fog-kissed windowpane. In the gentle glow of a dimmed lamp, I sat at my table, pen poised to capture the thoughts that flowed from the depths...
