The home we built on whispered promises and shared laughter, a sanctuary of us, is now nothing but ash.
It crumbled the moment I swallowed that bitter pill of truth, and in its ruins, a chilling realization bloomed: when I dare to dream of forever, your face no longer flickers in the light.
This house, now hollow, feels haunted not by specters but by the persistent ghost of what we were. It drifts through these silent hallways, a constant, unsettling presence.
You are a text away, yet a million tangled inconveniences keep us truly apart.
Perhaps it’s that chasm, or maybe it’s the unsettling comfort I've found in the absence of your soul's halo around mine. Or perhaps it's simply the broken reflection in the shattered dishes on my kitchen floor, showing no trace of the girl who was ever truly in love with you. And so, I am left with this profound unease.
We are not strangers; we are as laid bare as two souls can be. Yet, the unease persists. When forever stretches before me, it's a landscape devoid of you. Still, I am eternally undone by your memory.
Your name, when it surfaces in conversation, brews a bitter draught of hatred on my tongue.
And I do hate you. But does the heart truly know such simple lines? I remember wiping your tears, holding you close, murmuring, "I'm right here," as you wept in my arms. But even then, uncertainty coiled within me.
Am I unsure?
I confess, I don't know if we'll ever truly be together again.
You still smell of burnt matchsticks and cigarettes, a phantom scent that catches me unaware. Your touch, a ghost of velvet against my skin, your arms around my waist—the thought of it sears, yet it’s too late to extinguish.
Your lips were satin sheets, and my mind, wine spilled lavishly over yours, absorbed by you as it always was.
But we are over, my love. Both our broken hearts, once clumsily glued together to beat as one, and the little heart that withered between us. We wasted it. We wasted us.
I gaze into your eyes, searching for a reflection of myself, and see only the last flicker of our spark fading. I strike the matches, desperate, but it’s too late.
An unrestorable flame has reached its final, dwindling days.
Why are you still my muse? Why do these words spill forth, always about you, when you are no longer mine? Please, exit the chambers of my mind.
I don't want you anymore. You are a burned-down house, a wasted heart, a collection of empty promises.
Yet, two hearts still beat as one—they always will. We'll always share a heart, even if our souls refuse to intertwine.
I don't want to catch glimpses of you in the face of another lover; I don't want to repeat the cycle of us with someone new. I remember crying on the bathroom floor, clutching the shattered pieces of my own heart, broken by your hands.
And still, I wiped your tears, ignoring the agonizing shatter within my own chest.
