An Epilogue

I write of you in paragraphs instead of sentences, of thousands of letters instead of a few. Each dull mornings and lousy afternoons, I write of you to fill in the spaces left by your absence. Perhaps, this is the closest I can get to ever holding you again. This is, at least, the only way I know to make the distance between us seem a little lesser. 

I take a piece of what's left of us, and mold it in to writing. Each words entangled in our senseless heartbreaks, each stanza longing for the love that was once here. My sentences - they seem to know you very well, like they're constructed only by your being, and by yours alone. My words though lacking, are all too familiar with the beauty in your visage. They know you better than anybody else, they keep you until the very end. 

Darling, how my sonnets sing to you and you alone. No line had ever slipped away to someone else, and even if one may had - I offer the thirteen left to you. My rhymes, how they crave for your warmth, your touch, your soul. They long for you in between my melancholy nights and wished for your return. 

But my love, no exact amount of poetry or prose, can nearly sum up all my heart-aching thoughts of you.