most of the timesit’s the hardest to saywhat I love moreyouor your memory.

everything that is scatteredcomes together in wordseverything that is lostcomes back in poetry.

love canembellish its beginningsing its blossomingand engrave its eternitiesbut can never explain its loss.

Tomorrow camewith the illusion of todayeven more fleeting than yesterdayit camelike it always comesand wentlike it’s always gonelike a favorite song in its final secondsTomorrow came and leftleaving nothingnothing...but a familiarlingeringsense of loss behind.