things were warm and soft, oranges and yellows, i was comfortable and safe.
then by her hand things were forced cold. it became no longer a place of sanctum but a cold, dark cave.
but you, you were my lighthouse. my warmth in the cold, my safe haven.
but things have changed now.
she watches me from her blanket of comfort conformity as i sit,
basking in her elegant illumination i ponder of those yonder,
she tells me its okay, alright; things just take time, she knows after all,
so i tell her my secrets in her light.
there are certain smells that bring you to what has happened and what could’ve happened. the smell of freshly cut grass and burning leaves hit me in the face, hard.
grudgingly but almost willingly my existence is forever humbled.
i dont think people understand what i mean by the tangibly of things, i take pictures on cameras so that theres the constant reminder of the feeling you once had thats behind the story, with a phone its three clicks and its gone, with a picture its more than that to destroy the memories,
i sit here with a picture i took of you a week ago sitting on my leg and i am reminded of how broken i will be if we fall apart because your smiling face and ruffled hair and cute nose are staring back at me and im reminded,
reminded of how much someone actually cares for me.
old and forgotten our past is
— The End —