By Aashi Purohit
As I sat on my bed ripping letters you once wrote
I shed tears for the man who had promised not to leave,
Who would now forever become history.
For one, I wished to make my end,
but who forever remains my beginning,
I desperately want to forget.
To stop hurting as memories became old photographs
of someone I used to call my own
and letters become torn words of young love we once wrote.
Yet, like our words, torn they may be, my love remains
locked in the deepest parts of my soul to reminisce about the past
and the one I called my own.
By Aashi Purohit
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