On a rainy Sunday afternoon, your love came packaged in an olive notebook. Thoughts inked on paper, love hidden in between.
Why is it that I only saw the crease? Only saw fragments of a broken destiny. Now as I lie in my chair, with your book in my lap, it is not your thoughts, but my heart, which writes poems of what could have been.
It’s unreal how vivid this feels, how I am clinging on to a forlorn hope, knowing it will go away like a dewdrop on leaves.
It is another rainy Sunday afternoon and I still have the olive notebook. It still has your thoughts inked, your love hidden. I don’t see the creases anymore.
But I don’t think you feel the love anymore, do you, mi amor?