Parched Rose

I sat by the window

To write you a letter.

A ballad.

A book.

A Sentence.

Of our lost time together.

And after.

And now.

Perhaps for eternity.

Blurry eyes spill a drop on the parchment

But the words from the ink flow incessantly.

Of promises.

Of dreams.

Of a future departed.

Time turns back to the night

When you left without looking back.

Unspoken goodbyes.

False promises.

Incomplete love.

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?