I have been unable to write anything lately, be it the song in your eyes, the pause in your breath, the moon in your voice or the poetry in your arms, merely because I'm half in and out of fear, anxieties dangling atop the roof of my mouth, scared that you will forget me when I go and because I am always right.

Who am I to think that a mere mortal like me is worthy of being in your every day's thought base?

Please remember me, even if it's in the middle of your good times where I begin to matter less and you hear less of my echoes.