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monday, 3 p.m.
i wrote you a letter still laying in my pocket. hungers my heart, scarring through the fabric.
you called me on a tuesday morning to tell me love was indefinite. like i didn't know. you took with you the pink scarlet-roses when you left.
there and then i thought i'd never see you again, as had shadow arose from beneath the big wooden ceiling just to despair me.
i feel asleep under the old oak in the wood, felt like a child when i woke up and met the morning.
it still smells like cotton flower on your side of the bed. i haven't touched it since you left, can't bear the thought of losing the two strings of hair you left on the pillow-
it's august and the heat is wrecking me.
the leaves falls off the trees, summer feels less vacant for every silent night i spend in this house.
i've started dreaming about death. it comes with the lingering wind through the open window at night.
i called you five times in september, only to realize i have no idea what to say if you decided to answer the phone.
re-decorated only to change everything back again.
it's monday past midnight and i'm holding the letter i wrote you over an open fire. funny to imagine that envelope contains every second of love and life you penetrated underneath my skin. i'm desperately letting go of life and therefore of you-
it's the 5th of october and the house is silent. i think the walls still misses you and the hard wood floors your crumbling toes against them.
the feeling of letting go? how it feels? i imagine it feels like the waves of the ocean, big, grandeous, there for a second and then far, far away.
i wrote you a letter still laying in my pocket. hungers my heart, scarring through the fabric.
you called me on a tuesday morning to tell me love was indefinite. like i didn't know. you took with you the pink scarlet-roses when you left.
there and then i thought i'd never see you again, as had shadow arose from beneath the big wooden ceiling just to despair me.
i feel asleep under the old oak in the wood, felt like a child when i woke up and met the morning.
it still smells like cotton flower on your side of the bed. i haven't touched it since you left, can't bear the thought of losing the two strings of hair you left on the pillow-
it's august and the heat is wrecking me.
the leaves falls off the trees, summer feels less vacant for every silent night i spend in this house.
i've started dreaming about death. it comes with the lingering wind through the open window at night.
i called you five times in september, only to realize i have no idea what to say if you decided to answer the phone.
re-decorated only to change everything back again.
it's monday past midnight and i'm holding the letter i wrote you over an open fire. funny to imagine that envelope contains every second of love and life you penetrated underneath my skin. i'm desperately letting go of life and therefore of you-
it's the 5th of october and the house is silent. i think the walls still misses you and the hard wood floors your crumbling toes against them.
the feeling of letting go? how it feels? i imagine it feels like the waves of the ocean, big, grandeous, there for a second and then far, far away.