How are you?
This is a question. This is the question.
How. Are. You.
How have you been? The years pass on, and I, my own, is a lost dream.
Good morning. Good evening. Good riddance. Good bye.
I hoped to fake a lie, and complicate the already complicated.
You were a dream I had. A fantasy in writing. A fiction from a novel. A neverending pause.
How real is a dream, and how vivid can it be? It was there, and it was not;
And we were here but now we’re not.
And how are you, my friend? How I’ve longed to know.
The words we left unspoken brought tears that were forgotten. Yet the answer did lie in what was written – an archived crusade that rotted.
My! The years passed. The shame once cruel to one, yet today, a single question, a single thought – a memory and a clause.
It is our story left unwritten…
For which sake the past forgiven.
And I think, and I wonder, and I know now what a blunder
If I had let it tarry on whilst knowing me, and knowing you.
You can’t, i say, you can’t.
And I? I shan’t forget.
I write this here today in memory. The memory of a dream.