An unsigned card beneath a shut window,
sprayed with little perfume droplets,
and the wait is eternal.
For the love way back became just a shadow,
of moments basked in moonlit glory.
That might as well,
be your story.
A half burnt letter smelling of rose,
in verse and prose,
a charred odour
and the stench is ethereal.
For the passion became so huge, so real,
that no longer the heart could venture to feel.
The ending words say ‘I’m sorry’
that might as well,
be my story.