Since then, I have lost my senses. Lead by sensibilities, I have wandered away too much. And if you look into the night and thought once of a year ago, even then, you won't even come close to the darkness I am in. If writing was not enough, I apologise. If paper was not enough, tear it into shreds. I no longer want to relive the memory, but your voice is a a tad too much. I can't block it out. I can't stop thinking. Let me be.

But you know, it was my first attempt at a sonnet, my last form of communication with you.