I’ve forgotten the words that brought out
this ink. Wasted,
we take this memory for granted.
The aroma of a name,
or something along those lines.
The phrase had something to do
about you being mine. Which
is a selfish frame of thought,
Perhaps it is better then, to have such
thoughts lay in disrepair. To forget and
hide the awful, selfish side of my mind.
To touch the aroma of your name.
Or something like that,
romantic yet profound somehow.
I’ve failed to complete, forfeited
my right. But, perhaps it’s better that way.