It's Tuesday morning,
I'm here in the Riverside park,
strolling while listening
to your favourite music.
"Philip, I'm already here in the Big Apple, our favourite destination."
"I'm here to fulfil our ambition to become great writers."
As of now, all I can do is write you
as my classic history,
as a modern poetry.
I'm still writing fiction in the midst of reality.
I'm still writing letters for you,
even though you
turn into a
sad, beautiful memory.
After a couple of hours of strolling,
I decided to order your favourite coffee and write you a poem in the nearby cafe.
Today, I'm planning to write a short story and also plan
to go to the bookstore
for me to buy your favourite poetry books
using the money that you saved
before the death of my favourite poet,...