If only I could retrace my footsteps
one by one slowly creeping back into your arms,
stuck my finger to the old cassette tape rewind
back to that winter time with our hands in our pockets
and the stolen kisses behind closed doors,
back to that little fort with scarfs around our necks
and me keeping you warm
as we strolled passed the lullabies in the park
getting lost in the constellation and the woody paths.
Fleeting touches and late night Aglio-olios,
whispered secrets and hushed conversation as I
mold into your side in that tiny bed
with the moonlight illuminating your face and
your blue pyjamas.
Don't pace I said, not even during the rainy days,
the clock is ours and only ours.

Two parallel lines don't cross, they don't intersect.
I know, but maybe
just maybe if we stretch our arms and
hold out long enough,
our fingertips may touch.
It wasn't that I was ashamed nor that I was afraid,
it was just delicate.

But you can't relight a burned cigarette
or revive a disintegrating cell.
You can't flatten a crumpled paper
or swallow the words you said.
When all that's left are the
pictures of yesterday, along with the words whispered,
unheard in the dark, I found the ending to
the story that never once start.