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This book is all that’s left of him now.
Each word imprinted is a word of him.
A word of him that will never be said again.
A thought of his recorded.
Tears will forbid to start—
with faltering lip and throbbing brow,
I press it to my heart.
For several years
for several laughs
for several tears (of both angst and joy)
for several dialogs (in which we grew close).
Here his spirit is imprinted!
His hand this diary clasped by the ink of pen daily.
I long to hear his voice out loud (but I can only hear it echo in my head now),
gentle like a spring breeze but crisp as an apple.
For all that remains is his words,
similar to his voice but filled with memories of past and present
but little speak of the future.
My heart would thrill to see him again
but silent lips of the dead can’t speak
as his thoughts do on paper.
His body will never be able (again)
but his spirit, soul, and voice live on paper
for all eternity to hear.