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If days could be treated like leaves of paper all torn and stained —how many would I have left and how many would I have thrown away?
If days could be counted like sheaves of paper all sheared and spent —how many would I have cut to pieces and how many have I kept?
Would it mean something if we treat our lives as leaves of paper meant to store our memories and aspirations —us—just so we could remember what it was like to have lived so long ago?
Would it matter, love? as we tackle the roads we took —be it stemming or conjoined— would it mean something if we spill out thoughts on the papers we treated as days just so we could have someone to hear all the things we never said?
Darling, if days could be treated like leaves of paper all yellow and brittle —how many would I have left to past and dust and how many would I have worshipped until now?
If days could be treated like sheaves of paper to hold all the grime of my soul—lost and unheard— how many would I have burned to ashes and how many would I have remembered towards the grave?
