“Real love will make you blind, Like myself when I started to write poems about her.”

In my poems we made memories.

She, three single lettered word yet still, my heart’s deepest wound.

Her heart is like poetry a modern poetry only understood by some and accepted by few.

She is still healing in a quiet way.

In his eyes she was both poetry and prose.

Her eyes made me feel better.

I’m a poet, a sad poet, who wrote about her, always and forever.

The quiet hearts speaks the loudest prayer, hoping someone would hear.

Some of the magical moments in our life are from the smallest moments.

There were things that he wanted to write on paper, about everything he couldn’t tell her.

Sometimes, we express our words through writing, even though it needs to be spoken.

Losing her was plenty.

No matter what I do I’m still not the best writer for you.

I still see you in my dreams, teasing my feelings and damaging my heart.

You’re rare, which some people don’t care, but I do.

The words that appeared from my Ink where that could describe my love for you.

You’re my Sunday morning and my Saturday night.

Love is mostly easy at night, it is morning you got to learn about.

We love to live with sweet lies until reality touches the edges, of those sweet lies.

See the wonder that exists all around you – and know that you belong.

Don’t think of your heart as lonely, my darling, think of it as resting.

It’s a shallow world make no apologies for your depth.

I still think of you with every step I take.

Give me love and I’ll show you unconditional.