I write poems about you.
The funny thing is, you always think it's about her.
And ironically, she always knew they were for you.
Looking at that carmine red ink made me believe that my heart was poured into it, until the very last drop of my blood.
All those delirious late nights, I took my pen, and I wrote, frenetically, obsessively.
Tell me how can you imagine a world without me loving you in it.
Will the sun still shine ?
Will the stars look up for the moon ?
Don't you see ?
It's written all over my pages.
Look at how real it is.
But you read me without reading.
You always do.
