I loved you like a poem,
Long abandoned, and scribbled
On the torn page of a dusty notebook.
No rhyme , no meter, no ornamentation.

But the ink that spread from the letters
Smelled like blood,fresh and warm.
There were traces , of tears may be,
For they have burned and left marks.

The tongue of the poem,
Though unknown, strangely,felt familiar.
It is a memoir, perhaps , who knows?
Maybe it's an epitaph, for the poet himself.

It's unknown , strange , but I...