As I struggle to fill my lungs with oxygen,
As I fight the burning sensation in my eyes,
I asked why—
Why’d you let go?

“Why do you write?”
Someone asked.
I smiled.
“It’s depressing when I read it.”
She continued.
And yet, I smiled again.

You will meet that person.
You meet that person.
You met that person.
And stayed like that.
Stayed in the past.

Can you touch it?
Can you hear it?
Can you taste it?
Can you see it?
Can you smell it?
Let me ask again.
Can you touch the broken shadows?
Can you hear the painful bellows?
Can you taste the bitter truth?
Can you see the dreadful youth?
Can you smell the putrid words?
Can you feel the movement of one’s action?
Can you perceive the sensation of your nerves?
Now let me ask again.
What can you do—
In a world that went through and through?
What can you give—
To a person who is desperate to live?
What can you...

Where are your words?
Or were they meant to be just words?

Life is either—
A game of pretense,
An arena of mockery,
Or a gift of eccentricity.

His spoken words were:
“I will love you.”
And so he loved me.
Then left me.
Because his unspoken words were:
“I will leave you.”