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One Hundred Years

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I’m creating memories
Out of sample, unimportant moments
I sit back, think
And piece them together
Like ripped paper
Being put back into a scrapbook

I’m writing stories
With my shaky hand
My font big and round
My curved “t”s and awkward “a”s
Make me spontaneous and quirky
Maybe I’m hiding from something

I’m talking
And I finish your sentences
I predict your words
Like it was meant to be that way
If I could engrave my soul into stone,
I’d give it to you,
Cross my heart,
And hope
To live not one day
Without you





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