Lines of blank ink and unspoken confessions blanket only a few stiff pages of a little book we were to keep.
Each phrase speaking like poetry, a deep love only pouring from one young heart, still clinging to a hope.
And after days of effort, to come to terms, I'm surrounded by photos on the floor again, but this time with a pair of scissors.
I'm creating those memories, and shoving them into the covers and white sheets of paper.
Sunflowers and trees, coins and daisychains. Sand from a beach, and one last salty tear, a tribute.
Hours pass and soon I've nothing left to cut up and cast away. So with a sigh, I close our little book and send it on it's way, back to you.
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