She used to write down her every thought in little notebooks.
She talked about her hopes.
She spoke about dreams and plans she knew would be.
She wrote everything in pages that would be set aside and later forgotten much like our past.
I never read the words that were scribbled inside.
I was too busy inside my own words to ever worry over another’s.
She left them behind, little reminders of what was never to be.
Life is best lived not planned.
