Upon a time, my love, a diary
Of paper, stained with words set down in ink;
Revealing all a boy might feel, and think,
And strive, and pray, and wonder what might be;
That, would he, worthy of thy love, decree?
On paper, yes; but also on the brink–
Withholding nothing more–profess; and think,
If then not worthy, tears he shed for thee
Would blur his ink; such tears as fell like rain
To paper; ran his words, as ran his heart,
Cascading down, as rivers, all his pain;
So mixt with joy, and hope we would not part.
Yet now, his tears, upon a keyboard, fall,
Not mixt with joy, nor pain, nor seen at all.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
David Emeron: Sonnets 
A beautiful expression on the passage of time, my dear. Your words invoke a strong desire to soothe the boy’s aching heart and dry his hot tears…
One can only hope the monsoon season begins soon to give him ease.
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Always it began,
as reliable as though
it ran like clockwork,
Sweetheart, did I sit,
outside, under an awning,
watched and listened as it rained.
And sometimes, I cried;
all my tears, all my ink, mixed;
and wrote I such things.
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I like the thought of a paper trail. A keyboard with tears is something other.
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I remember well
the look of tears on paper.
They spark memories
when seen once again
decades later. Alas, tears
and electrons do
not mix well; nor leave
lasting signs when they do mix.
They dry; and are gone.
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Today I finally have all of this piece in my head. It is so very beautiful. Thank you for sharing it with me, my dear.
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So beautiful…
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