Poetry wasn’t that, what he wrote for her…
It was that, what he lived with her…

There’s was a tale – of words few.. not too long,
Just a few simple walks, silent conversations, short moments now gone…

Rhymes were his way to remember those moments now…
Random outburst of nostalgic thoughts.. written in words somehow…

He wasn’t that good with rhymes… he knew.. anyone could tell…
For now rhyming wasn’t easy.. like him.. his thoughts felt incomplete as well.

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