I remembered when
your gray eyes were always full of light
and your gray, gray soul
danced on the hair-thin line
between black and white.
I'm not one of clichés
or those love-and-lost poems
that were always about you.
But you were the one that got away.
In my light-handed diary,
the pages always show
that it revolved around you
than it ever did for me.
As much as I like this to
not be another sonnet about you
or the idea of you, I think,
here I'm writing in my diary
again
of how I always miss you.
Please wait...
