Silenced heart

“I go through my notebooks,
Pages and pages yellow with age,
Filled with the ink of my pen,
But overflowing with signs of you.

My fingers trace every page,
Every single black ink’s trace;
I can picture your every line
From every word I write.

My poems have become odes to you,
A repertoire asking for a soundtrack,
Violins crying about my longing in the distance,
Like wolves, them and I, howling to the moon, for you…

I keep heading west
Far from where we met,
And I silent my heart every night
So it doesn’t wonder if you’re alright…”

Ana.