(This relates to the entry “I let you go“.)
The moon casts shadows upon the sea. Silence and ashes.
I was supposed to let the rose petals be carried away by the river waters. I was supposed to let go.
All the days that could never come, all the things I would never tell you.
I think I’ve always known that it could never happen. You and I, will always be strangers. Nobody falls in love with a girl that has stared into the void for so long.
Now emptiness turns to apathy turns to numbness. Lying becomes easy. (I never cared; No, I’m not sad; Yes, I’m fine. I’m always fine.)
I try to remember what the nightingale sounded like. A half-breath, a half-remembered dream; fragments from a soft collision.
Everything is still for a moment. Dark. Like even the sky is crippled with sorrow.
And I’m writing myself as a lily, white petals and all.
And I try to collect them all.
But this is the truth: I can romanticise hell, but everything is rott(en/ing) here.