That face does not tell a lot
Just calm, peaceful, undisturbed
His answers, always simple and short
So cheerful, yet so soft spoken.
 
Many people like to be around him
Often gets to hear intimate secrets
Hidden problems to others unknown
and all he ever has to do is listen.
 
Sometimes before one can finish
He already knows the story's ending
and what answers he can offer to give
Often they would leave happily grinning.
 
Yes, he knows quite a few things in life
but not many know of the scars he keeps
for he is forever seen with a smile
Not a person he knew he would fail to greet.
 
But deep inside, through his faraway look
lies a deepened wound that never healed
Every year, he finds the world most cruel
in the sacred month when a memory would yield.
 
He takes out a box of priceless memorabilia
with letters and pictures he kept so neatly
and pays tribute to his one and only true love
though its been years since she departed so suddenly.
 
This is maybe, the only time when solutions elude him
and tears would flow so much, it feels like bleeding
Who is he, who writes for one he can nevermore reach?
He is none other than October's version of me