The heart,
not what it used to be
Its chambers are diffrent since you left
There is no more art in the gallery
White walls, no light
Its not empty though
The space, filled with your absence
and whispers asking

*"Where did it go wrong?"

Will you build a paper town with me?

Not like a landmark on a copywrited map,
but like a haven for our transparent hearts.
We'll make armour out of discarded parts,
and I'll fight gallantly for your love.
We can fold the edges, and bend the lines;
we can race the shadows and chase the time,
sculpting refuge from the bitter cold
of a rigid, solemn, dreamless world.
At night, the moon will guard us,
with a jealous kind of grudge,
grieving when you handle me,
envious of your touch.
The sun will rise to mourn me,
and lay you down in fields of dust,
as we paint the town with every colour
of our infinite, utopian love.

the moon knows.

she has seen countless confessions in her light, watched life and death alike, and judged none of it. the moon is the one who will not whisper your secrets to the stars. she is just a reflection, after all. limited by her existence.

the sun is the one who will betray you, will turn his back on you, will scream everything you've done to everyone awake to hear. the sun shines and does not care if you burn beneath him.

the moon does not care, either, but she is not vindictive, and for that, we tell her things the sun will never know.

didn't anyone tell you that the moon can keep a secret?

she is not the sun.

"I felt so sad, I suffocate."*
— l.m