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Writing poetry was a pleasure,

And so it solaced her empty heart,

Momentarily, writing poetry was not an option,

She sought for a friend to pour her heart’s content,

She found one!

But it was incomplete,

She found a plus one!

And none could ever compete,

Her, her pen and the pen’s companion, the paper.

Then she wondered,

When would she find her paper?

The one and only to hold her stories,

The one and only where she could let art takeover,

The one and only she pens her reminder.

Until one day,

She wandered in the depths of sorrows and gruesome,

She found her paper,

Slightly torn just like her fragile heart.

She tells him her stories from birth,

Slowly, he tries to digest,

The perfect girl he know,

Was someone imperfectly perfect for him.

Their love was truly a work of art,

Bittersweet moments splashed their plain canvas,

Making each second felt like eternity.

He was indeed her sticky note,

The one that reminded her something

He reminded her of something she would never forget,

That love was never ever true.

a.k.