Who wrote the book of love?
I don’t know.
They say you did, but I don’t recognize the handwriting.
I’ve been searching for authorship for so long,
I’ve forgotten to read the damn thing,
despite its reign atop the bestseller lists.
“Maybe tomorrow,”
I keep saying to myself, forgetting that
Tomorrow never shows up,
and meanwhile, your masterpiece waits
for me, patiently,
like a cloud waits for the wind.