it was all for me
and when she left it felt like she took with her all the beautiful things left inside of me. what was there to write of anymore? for who? with time I realized the emptiness was space to grow into and the once beautiful things were still there, beautifully broken, and in the midst of endless stillness, I found there was, within me, an enduring fluttering of hope. now I write these words for nobody; they're for me, and me alone.




















