It’s a disease,
These flashbacks of warm summer evenings,
A poem of small details,
Which only belongs to me.
The way you spoke,
Your fingers holding the cigarette to your lips,
The look in your eyes,
Which I believed to be meaningful.
Your arms wrapped around me,
Was a promise of love,
Or so I thought,
Before you bluntly cast me aside.
My lips could not utter words,
For I loved you too much,
Yet you mistook this for dullness of character,
Sharply telling me so.
I still dream of what could have been,
If only you would have realized,
That I could have made you immortal,
If I could have put my love into words.