I sat by the window
To write you a letter.
Of our lost time together.
Perhaps for eternity.
Blurry eyes spill a drop on the parchment
But the words from the ink flow incessantly.
Of a future departed.
Time turns back to the night
When you left without looking back.
This letter will be yet another draft.
Not burned to ashes, my fickle heart.
But you will still know, won’t you?
And just leave me with a parched rose
With the last fumes of our time?