I wanted the fireflies to grace my steps and the stars to crash and collide, comets calling, not in a race but to remember that place.
It was never real, not really, ethereal, slipping by, never a look, never a glance as time passes by. Not a chapter uncovered, but a chapter never told. New beginnings fate called stinging.
Heaven is hell and hope is ringing committing itself to memory and a past soft spoken by, never quiet, but also not shy. Sometimes a cruel prophet and a forbidden taste, a hand held high, as I fall asleep and she takes her place.
Not amongst the stars, no. Not friend, not foe. Falling asleep? Some stories best left incomplete until the time they told can be stolen from the stars and wished into a midnight summer's dream.
Casual poetry seemingly complete.
I donβt k ow who this is from but holy shit.
What makes you feel like your feelings were never real?
I feel like you loved someone real bad, or the idea of them ( οΏΌwhich honestly isnβt always good because ideas are just that, ideas , not fact.)
But you must first find what is the truth in not just your heart, but theirs.
Again, such beautiful poetry.
