I penned a memoir
of a love that aches more than
a thousand wounds.
each word with your prints on them.
My worn out gloves steered clear of
your burning touches
But my knuckles has gotten cold inside.

I penned a memoir
For a hope that's long dead and gone.
Until I no longer feel my hand
But the flowers that I picked,
pressed and burried
between those yellow pages
Somehow feels much more alive.

I sent it to a place
where memories rest in deep peace
But it was sent back to me.
turns out, they said,
That I'm not writing a memoir.
But a mere poetry.


© fourthmonthishername