It's been years
when he last
met her.
"We are
being lost
again.
Are we
the poetry
on a paper,
and suddenly,
we are flying
somewhere
we're not
familiar of?"
He still remember
that question
she asked him.
And he said
the wrong answer.
Now he knew.
"We are written
on a paper,
like poetry.
We are meant
to live forever
on that paper,
but on reality,
maybe we were not.
You were my
kind of poem
I could
keep
but I can't
be with
everywhere.
As I travel
I could
meet someone
who will be
my poem, too.
We were a poem
of glimpse
and touch
but not of
forever and
tattoed.
You were
a memory
and your
name were
always written
deep down
on me."
He seek
for the moon,
"I hope
you're okay
now."
