I did not write about him,
I wrote him.
Into ancient poems and yellowing letters,
Into blooming roses and winding streams,
Into the good and evil of life.
I wrote him into ballads and sonnets,
Into the death and decay of time.
As I held his hand through the labyrinth of life,
I wrote him into the caress of a thousand winds,
Into the embrace of unending thoughts.
I wrote him into love and everlasting sorrow,
I wrote him until he said goodbye.
I wrote him, till the echo of his footsteps receded,
And he was a blur on the horizon,
I wrote him,
Till there was no more of him to write…..
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