🪐's archive

i am so full of love, it'd be too cruel if you were to take advantage of that flaw.

i guess it is safe to say that he was what i used to call art. a canvas that came to life, a palette so vivid and lively, a scenery that once looked like home. his face was like unfinished poetry, someone's handwritten letter that was never meant to be sent. i can never tell what was going on in his mind, but i can presume that he never looked at me the same way i looked at him. he danced with me while the river flows with ease, he lets me hold his hand whenever i fear of him leaving me. yet he never once looked at me whenever we waltzed, his hands never felt the warmth that i've always longed for, instead his eyes were far distant, and the way his fingertips brushed mine felt like ice cold. at least he still smiled at me like i meant something, it was a small portion of hope that i desperately held onto, but as the darkness consumes us, it was never my name that he calls. my heart was with him, but no matter where i look, i cannot find his.