The Ink

The ink doth flow
from out the pen,
to the paper yet
again and becomes
the words, which I write.
Not profound, perhaps trite.
Words are coming,
from my mind.
Words of truth
from memories, mine.
Where to go, please tell me now
for I miss the life,
we once did live.
Not the one be have
today, where most of
your memory has gone away.
Gone from here. I don't know why,
but what a loss it is
and a terrible way to say goodbye.