The candle burns bright upon the table

Where the young woman sits, staring outside

Blank pages before her, pen in hand yet unable

Memories of winter eat at her brain

Snow covered street lamps, clouds of breath

Wanders the streets towards a place with no name

She sees the bright sun on his face

But tries to remember what was his name?

And so he walks on, never changing pace

The candle grows smaller in the night

But still the pages remain purest white

Perhaps she won't write the letter

Now he, two floors above remembers it all

The days by the sea he cries "O Dear!"

"Why does our love like wave rise and fall?"

"There are so many roads to choose

In this city that never sleeps

One towards the lover, the others a ruse"

At last the old woman begins to write

The stump of a candle offers little

Her arthritic hands tremble, are slight

She writes the bright sun on his face

Trying to remember, what was his name?

And so he stays, his home is the page.

The End

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