I only exist in fragments of time,
and so is my love.
You had me whole
in a night of tenderness.
I knew kindness and bliss
enough to turn you into a sweet memory.
“Why can’t it happen again?
Why do you have to turn me into a memory
the moment you walk out of that room?”
You said I lived and loved
as a story teller.
Quite a story you were.
I cannot keep killing you,
but you are not able to let me go.
Perhaps I am not either.
Thus I wonder how to write a wonderful story
without having it falling in love with me
or myself falling in love with it.