You can search if you like, the library of those who have lived.
Row after row of dusty books, stories of some that gived.
Others are just pages of lamenting, describing their pain and loss.
Scribbles of things unsaid and things that silence cost.
You may just find your book, amidst the stacks of stories unfinished.
Ink still wet on the pages, of a life not yet diminished.
In there you’ll find a sentence, in which you casually mention me.
In my book you’ll find a chapter, of which was written for thee.