Promise

It was so long ago.
You and me.
But you made me a promise.
Nothing important
But nothing I won't forget.
You promised me I could read
Your words.
Your art.
The clashes of words.
Of love.
Of fear.
Of death.
Of us.
On of once a clear canvas
Now filled of distant memories and fantasy 

It was simple 
Yes
Impotant
Maybe not.
Important to me.
Oh most certain.
I told I was crazy 
Of the Art
And I was an artist
An unkown one.
But so were you.
I was a poet that fell for another.
But without your art.
And your Promise.

on writing and wordsmei do not know?

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