"White With pen in hand, I sit to write songs of love, Even though the funeral of my love, Was laid to rest long ago. Who am I really writing for now? For the one who left me behind, Yet, before that, made me feel, Like the luckiest person alive, even if just for a while. Though she also left a void that continues to aches. Still, I can only write for her. For this pen of mine stubbornly refuses, To acknowledge anyone else but her. ©indefinite_mirage "