She reads
her diary and the memories fly
from the pages. Then she gazes up at the sky
if the diary can contain the sweetest past
why not her, the writer of her love, make it last?
He reads
his diary and ruefully shakes his
head. The diary's about the kiss, the bliss
of first dates, first dance, sharing dreams and holding hands
of memories, nothing but memories. He stands.
And he picks
up his diary and goes for the door.
His feet, cold and bare like his heart, frighten the floor-
a walk in the park to clear his head (and hush his heart).
On his way, he tries to ignore the house athwart.
It is her
house. And she sees him walking, head down.
Look up, she whispers, I'm pretty in my night gown
But the wind ignores her whisper and her sad tears
drop all the way down to the diary's dog-ears.
He clutches
his diary close to his chest, who knows
maybe by doing so, the words will rouse the ghost
of her, of her sugar smile, of her lovely face.
He welcomes the ghost and his one last taste of grace.
She looks
at him from the window till he's gone.
She wants to follow him. The courage to do so-None.
For why follow someone who's not there anymore?
Rejection is more bitter than the sorrow she bore.
The ghost
of her is far from enough, he believes,
as he listens to the song of the rustling leaves.
Win her back, it says. But he shakes his head once more
Why win back someone who is not there anymore?
