Writing a letter
Without holding back tears.
Commas as a silence,
Question marks as a scream.
Paper smells like memories
And the last full stop is yelling with languor.

Letters delivered by days
And hours which I lost permanently.
Every line is an individual story.
Every word is a different past.

Pages without ending
Dreams without probable beginning.
I have broken my pen.
-
Oh,
No...
It was my heart