Really? Why is it that when I always write about you, I can’t find any subject.
I’m being asked by almost everyone now. About forgetting you. Silly. No one knows how many pages I have written imagining you with me, walking, hand in hand, and your head on my shoulders sometimes. What about those endless lines of poetry, written in your presence, with your eyes in mine.
You are in me, like an incurable disease. That will grow with time. It has no ending. Not a bit. And I want to live with it, until I’m alive. Untreated.
Every moment, we spent together, have become contagious in my memory. Spreading vast, every second. The roots of these memories have grown old like those trees in abandoned temples. This pain has grown dark, darker than the moonless nights. This pain is perhaps the sentence I owe you.
But beyond this pain, beyond my sleepless nights and beyond every individual between you and me. Sometimes I feel we’ll meet, perhaps in the hereafter, perhaps in a parallel universe,
This is the reason I keep myself happy. That moment has given me the confidence to live with a smile. The smile of hope. That we’ll meet one day. We’ll become One, one day.
Forgetting you, oh well, it can go darn itself. You are with me and will stay forever, until that moment. That moment when those old trees will have flowers, that abandoned temple of my memory shall welcome visitors. Visitors, who will ensure your presence with their prayers. In another life, in a parallel universe when your lips will call my name, I shall be with you. And that will be forever.
Then I’ll make you read those moments that I have engraved on pages. Endless are they.