There are ashes in these pages
Built up from the ages
Of cliché-bound stories,
Of love and its glories.

The verses ring true,
They remind me of you.
Of my hopes and my dreams,
All ripped at the seams.

Every letter, every word,
Every story never heard,
Every tear ever shed,
All recorded to be read.

They lay in my palm,
The pages seeming calm.
But that's only the cover
Of another perfect lover.

Love like so never lasts,
It's only lost in the lonely past.
Recorded as tales for me to take,
maybe I can learn from their mistake.