If a sunset's too beautiful somewhere, it means that place is polluted.

You see, whenever I look at you, you're the most beautiful sunset the world could offer. How the light shining from your irises reflect the way a sunset blends its hues. How your smile captures the light of the sun, slowly fading, but will never die. Then how awe dumbstrucks me in the most amazing way. You're magical, in the most realistic, possible way.

But I guess you're polluted.

From the hurt, the lies, your past, the demons stuck inside that head of yours, the anxiety, everything. You conjured every possible demon inside of you and turned them into the most beautiful hues of the most beautiful sunset of the most polluted place on earth. You were made of broken pieces and shards of pain but it still looks like you were made to be a god.

You really are ******* magical. You're the beautiful ending of the most tragic beginning.

"You're quite something, aren't you?"
"But I'm your something"
"Indeed you are."

I am being haunted by what ifs and disappointing expectations.

I asked myself if there's this slight probability that I might fall in love with you.

Then the war starts.

My standards versus my happiness are fighting over the fact that I might give in. Well, maybe. I don't really know. It's been way too long since I last felt this; the vibrations, the adrenaline. But you're too young, well I guess that's what they'll describe it in this generation. I'm too old for a boy who's a year or two younger than me. It's the way how everyone's minds work now. And I guess, mine's included in the sea of endless judgments, thoughts.

It's been what, three months? And he's still on my mind.

I don't know what to do.

There's this unspoken rule that we're only to talk things about her. That hint of pride shining in your irises, she doesn't deserve that.

But you thought otherwise.

you're the deadly kind
that when you make me feel so otherworldly alive,
it is a plus to the countless ropes left around my neck so tight

daddy's girl is reaching
her father's hand while saying
"the reaper of hearts is here
she's holding your hand, father dear

i love melancholic kisses and intimacy,
the way they hold hands so freely
but the reaper of hearts is here, daddy
and she needs to reap, not live"

and that's the short story
of the reaper of hearts
who loved happy endings
but will never have one