The Unfinished Road

I don't really know

whether I should have fought for my love.

Should I be happy knowing

that she is happy now,

or should I hurt myself believing

that she would have been happier with me?

What will this world call me?

A brave man,

or a coward?

I don't know.....

Maybe no one will call me anything.

The one who was meant to call me

has already called.

And today,

I am simply too late to answer.

In this empty room,

everything remains empty.

The pages filled with a thousand memories

have fallen away,

untouched by anyone's hands.

Even the scent of the flowers is gone.

And this water gathering

at the corner of my eyes...

what is it?

Pain,

or sorrow?

This is a language

she will never know.

A heart can be read.

Eyes can be understood.

But what is the mathematics of emotion?

This road feels

as though it has ended,

yet somehow never ends.

The story makes its own road,

but who is the traveller on this path?

Me?

Or all of us?

But what does it matter?

When has a traveller ever walked

for profit?

A traveller walks for the destination.

Profit belongs to the merchant.

Not to me.

I keep looking at the road.

I stop inside the story.

Let it be yours.

Let me not be there.

Still, I will remain.

I will return again and again,

as an unknown traveller,

a new spectator,

as the scent hidden

in the folds of a torn page.

I don't know if this is right.

I don't even know

if this is the ending.

Then let it be.

Let it be a distant glimpse,

a touch felt only through the wind.

Still, in my story,

it will always be you.

Let this world

drift away...