Old love letters,
Forgotten moments in time,
Perfectly preserved torture devices,
Infinite hope totems that outlast the writers heart.

All our quivers vibrate the pen,
Devoid of the minds rationale,
Heart string serenades,
A truth detector if there ever was one.

Instantaneous travel,
Through time and space,
Memories aren’t this moment,
Nostalgia isn’t a place.

This Infinite love,
And time with no lines,
Are now souvenirs,
Of words that don’t bind.

- Afrim Gjonbalaj (05/22/2024)