It lay covered in a thick film of dust,
The vintage feel unappreciated,
Its layers empty and longing for some love,
It was a go-to once,
Now, it was just another thing
Lying in a home’s furthest corners.
Quick fingers typed with an enthusiastic fervour,
But forgot the ink stained times,
When fingers would write the deepest of the emotions,
In the crevices of a diary’s pages,
Confiding some secrets and feelings,
Relying on their dependable friend in times of a crisis.
Typing out their troubles,
Had made them forget pouring out their heart.