there will be a time where I’ll open my century-old journal again. I would look through the pages and caress every part of it — until I find you. There will be a time where your name wouldn’t scare me anymore, as if it was a gunshot and I was a bull’s eye. There will be a time where my softspoken heart would learn to proclaim every feeling I have inside. And, when that time comes, I hope to see myself closing the last part of the sheet where your name was once embedded.
Thank you for letting me write you as a poetry. But this time, I’m finally writing you a different chapter.
A chapter where you could have been but never was — like how we could have been but never were this time.