I look at you and find the secrets in your eyes, thoughts you let slip by but store in your mind, away from my scrutinizing presence, embedded deep in your memory. I'm afraid that apologizing isn't enough anymore to heal your wounds I've caused.

I look at you and find the secrets in your eyes, thoughts you let slip by but store in your mind, away from my scrutinizing presence, embedded deep in your memory. I'm afraid that apologizing isn't enough anymore to heal your wounds I've caused.

I slowly see the consequences of my actions, my own demise through the body I love. Your basket is now full of all the objects I've wrongly wrapped, addressed to something and someone else, but given to you. Now, before it spills, you take it out, dumping them along with the memories we've made.

I slowly see the consequences of my actions, my own demise through the body I love. Your basket is now full of all the objects I've wrongly wrapped, addressed to something and someone else, but given to you. Now, before it spills, you take it out, dumping them along with the memories we've made.

Alone among these mountains, I think of your hand around mine. I speak: I wish you had the courage to tell me you'd leave so I'd wake up without high hopes that I'd find you sitting, thinking like you usually would. I can't see you now, but at least right here, I've reclaimed the self I lost.

Alone among these mountains, I think of your hand around mine. I speak: I wish you had the courage to tell me you'd leave so I'd wake up without high hopes that I'd find you sitting, thinking like you usually would. I can't see you now, but at least right here, I've reclaimed the self I lost.

🤍🤍🤍

First, it's the silence. Then, our complacency. We fall into a routine, and living becomes a chore. We live in this town, in a big house with large windows. Yet it's so dark, even when we turn the lights on. We're at dinner now, and when I look at you, I see a distant memory I can vaguely remember.

First, it's the silence. Then, our complacency. We fall into a routine, and living becomes a chore. We live in this town, in a big house with large windows. Yet it's so dark, even when we turn the lights on. We're at dinner now, and when I look at you, I see a distant memory I can vaguely remember.

We're miles apart, but I still think of you. When I do, it brings me back to the time I wanted to stop time and float in the infinite. You shared your light, and I took half of it until I fed off of it, until you flickered. Now every time I look at the moon, I only see you.

We're miles apart, but I still think of you. When I do, it brings me back to the time I wanted to stop time and float in the infinite. You shared your light, and I took half of it until I fed off of it, until you flickered. Now every time I look at the moon, I only see you.

We grip our own umbrellas instead of holding hands. The soft pattering of the rain is the only sound that passes between us. That's fine. We’ve long known we don't sound familiar anymore. The rain still smells like you, but it's the kind of scent I wish I didn’t know.

We grip our own umbrellas instead of holding hands. The soft pattering of the rain is the only sound that passes between us. That's fine. We’ve long known we don't sound familiar anymore. The rain still smells like you, but it's the kind of scent I wish I didn’t know.

It’s past midnight, and we can’t sleep. We sit on the ragged rock outside our rented house and watch the sky. The stars spill around the colored sky, their glint lighting up our evening. For a moment, the tension between us mellows. Then, you say, “We’re smaller than we think we are.”

It’s past midnight, and we can’t sleep. We sit on the ragged rock outside our rented house and watch the sky. The stars spill around the colored sky, their glint lighting up our evening. For a moment, the tension between us mellows. Then, you say, “We’re smaller than we think we are.”