it still happens: the gaps, the gasps and the sound between.

by Vanja Terzic (Pexels);
by Vanja Terzic (Pexels);

We are in a constant ride where you tell me what we can have when I can only see the reflections we have left behind.

Beneath some lonesome sunsets, I latch on the fiction I have built for two; I stand beside you to wait if you will link your light fingers with mine for this supposed destiny. As it dips behind the crest of the rugged mountains, our shadows grow taller and darker. The audible sound of your satisfied sigh causes uncalled shakes into my veins.

Maybe I should buy a dreamcatcher to filter the disarray we have, but I do not have enough money; I can rob somebody else’s, but my desperation will lead me astray. Make me your salvation and I will deliver us to where the sounds do not live.

You fade from my skin and I invite my foreign self in. I do not know what comes next; I do not feel what passes by. You have done a greater damage to who I was.

“Hold tight; this is going to rise,” when we both know it will not.

Yet, after all my deaths, I grip your assurances.


Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.

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