I shall be writing to you,

I am weak and dying but this is the last thing I should do.


For tomorrow you will not hear of me,

My weak existence shall vanish like those doves you set free.


I will take one of your most precious things,

I stole it from your closet when you were at the ball of the kings.


It is a remembrance of everything I meant to your heart,

A small memoir of those lovely meetings as sweet as a tart.


I will look at those little pages and burn them with the warmth you gave me all these years,

Just to find that they wouldn't burn because of my everflowing tears.


Its not that I only plundered as I am not a thief,

I kept something that shall kill all your grief.


For it will convince you that I never lived,

That I was just a figment of your imagination all equipped.


That you mistook me for a man of the mortal world,

While I lay in my coffin for 1000 years all curled.


You would be wrong if you thought this poem shall remain with you over centuries spread,

For the ink shall fade with every tear you shed.


I hope you will forgive me as I leave you alone and flee,

For tomorrow you will not hear of me...

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