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dear diary,

this is the last time my multicolour pencils will write in monochromatic ink and paper to you.

it has always been about just
me,
hasn't it?

but i remember that you fancy yellowed newspapers,
so when i lock you away in my rusty bookshelf,
i will keep you beside that stack.

i will take you out sometimes to taste the dust on you and get little nips of nostalgia,
and we'll sing "blowin' in the wind" together, old friend.

i will smell my dried tears which smudged black words on your now-worn pages.

i will hear my sweet awkward chuckle that you hid between your lines,
since the first time i had fallen in love.

i will re-watch myself from the past
--- now like a half-forgotten face
in my mind-mill ---
raging, sinning, dancing and transcending on you,
and it will make me smile a lost smile.

i will find a flower that a boy in my class had proffered to me
when i was 13 years old, with all the
shy scars and
psychedelic memories
still engraved upon it.
ofcourse i had unhesitatingly given it over to
you
as soon as i reached home –
for you to compress into a story.

and it isn't just flowers.

you smell like my childhood, for i made you my treasure house of old vintage chocolate wrappers,
and you in return built those golden textures into a playhouse for me.

dear diary, i am sorry for all those times i shouted at you for never offering a word to comfort me.
i guess i was too young too realise then that when you listened to my silly teenage heartbreaks,
you left the silent space for me to
grow into a woman.

dear diary, this is not farewell, because with all of the times we had played scrabble,
i ensured that i'll never be able to leave you.

dear diary, today i could not write about my day,
because it will always be
us.
you and me.

dear diary, you taught me the art of selfless love.

yours truly,
your only lover.

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