Some where between the perpetual isolation
that we created in the name of personal space.
The wounds that were never healed,
Because they never received the ointment of attention.
The misunderstandings
That pilled up into a giant rumpus,
And ignited the dubious disposition,
turning the intimate conversations into constant fights.
The love that we lost,
To the demonic darkness of our egoistic nature,
Still exists,
But only in the fragments
Of some moth-eaten memories.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 12:31 PM UTC
Some where between the perpetual isolation
that we created in the name of personal space.
The wounds that were never healed,
Because they never received the ointment of attention.
The misunderstandings
That pilled up into a giant rumpus,
And ignited the dubious disposition,
turning the intimate conversations into constant fights.
The love that we lost,
To the demonic darkness of our egoistic nature,
Still exists,
But only in the fragments
Of some moth-eaten memories.
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