I tried to publicly hate you, to quietly forget you and to aggressively erase every rose-coloured memory you gave me. I cursed your haunting name and wrote your initials on a blank paper, then burnt it in the dancing, dying flames, as I stood under the silver light of the becoming moon.
I have forced myself to have mercy on my speaking tongue and my restless soul, but I still can’t quite forgive myself for losing the better parts of me to an indifferent man who never seemed to care.
My tears have been continuously flowing, like the cherry-coloured blood through my paperthin vessels: swiftly and out of my own control. I have been silently crying on the long train rides home. I was impulsively looking for your angelic face in crowded places, until I realised you’re still miles and miles away.
I see series of pictures of you smiling, you seem perfectly happy and content. You’re living your best life. I’m convinced you won’t even reserve a little room for me in the back of your mind. I mean, why would you?
There’s this hungry emptiness and a growing craving to bring back a love that’s gone to waste. There’s a past time asking to be re-relived, but I’m well aware of the fact the clock is stubborn and love never really gives second chances. I wish there was a part of me that was clever enough to turn off my heart. But the lights are off and I can’t see in the dark.
Sometimes when I’m sleeping, you visit my dreams. You whisper words of comfort and you sing me back to sleep. Once in a while you tell me you miss me and then I will try to see through the lie. But I’m tired of wishing and hoping that maybe someday you’ll come back into my life. You’re happy and I’m happy for you, at least I try.