I still look for you in every piece I write lately. I still look for the metaphors that described you in ways that I couldn’t. I still look for the chapters where we’ve been once, and in the paragraphs where I had my worst and in the periods where you came and saved me. I still look for the titles you used when I was tired of describing my own. I still read your italicized name always mentioned on the pages of my woes.
To the ways that I couldn’t even understand what I wrote – to the ways how my tears dried up writing what I always feel. But, maybe I was writing for the wrong person all along. Maybe the reason for our periods will forever mean that our book is already ending – or has finally ended at all. And this, this isn’t even the book I wanted – for you are just a secret chapter of my regrets.
A chapter I once wrote but never been finished.