You are still alive between the pages of my messed up diary.
Your presence still lingers in every word I write.
Every letter bears witness to the essence of your being, that’s written though them.
Your heart still beats between the smudged, crooked pages.
Every time I hold my pen to write, I can feel your fingers caressing my hands, willing me to keep you alive in between my lines.
You have imprinted your soul in the abstract of my words.
Every stroke of my pen marks every breath you take.
Know that if this is the only way,
I shall write till my hands bleed,
If only to feel you exist,
Through the veil that’s in between.