Old drafts

Lost the old drafts,
That marked the beginning of love.

We all died a little inside,
And donned a new life.
We gasped,
Look terribly amazed,
Re-lived what never happened.

Words spun over by centuries.
A short story,
That never ever ended.
An epitaph poem,
Where the poet stayed alive,
The poem was buried.

Kept writing,
On loose white sheets,
Crisp and benign.
A start to the end,
Of our new found lives.