Years after, beneath the pillow it stays,
Our diary bound to forgotten days.
Its spine bears the weight of dreams spun,
Of a love that burned like the golden sun.
Its pages whisper in ink that fades,
Of stolen glances and moonlit parades.
Words etched deep, yet trembling with grace,
Each a relic of your familiar face.
The pillow cradles its fragile form,
A quiet witness to love’s fleeting storm.
Unopened now, its secrets confined,
Like a time-capsule of hearts entwined.
Years later, the world has turned,
Yet here it lies, with love unlearned.
It remembers “you and me” in a careful flow,
While time moves forward, soft and slow.
In its depths, our laughter lingers,
Like ghostly prints of intertwining fingers.
Every page a story, a soulful plea,
Of the once unbroken “you and me.”
So, the pillow sighs, and the diary rests,
Preserving a love that time detests.
Its ink may fade, its pages may fray,
Yet the echoes of us will never decay.
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