I’m still here with my pen,
writing everything that I could think of.
Suddenly, it occurred to me why I am being like this
— that sort of imaginative yet realistic dreamer.
I wasn’t surprised when I found you in my thoughts.
You are a good help.
In fact, the only help I’d forever cling to that stays.
You are not mine, I don’t care.
You are not the novel God gave me.
But you are the only one I could write to.
So please, stay until I can find someone again.
When I do, you can grab for the exit.
Leave. But when my poetries crave for your presence,
I want you to stay even just for a while.
I know you’re not mine to finish poetry with.
But you’re the only subject that keeps me going.
So please, stay.