Time Machine

Tattered pages mark the book

I wrote in about you.

Yellow pages, once blank white,

are filled with youth's fresh view.

So many days of entries skipped

when you were out of sight.

The inspiration from a smile

or a glance would cause delight.

Sometimes hopes, romantic thoughts

are only good as dreams.

It's the flaws that bind us close

not shining stars or moonbeams.

Yet, I wouldn't trade a moment

of a thought of you in mind,

and with each turning page a time machine rewinds