Everything stops.
Rain stops falling like
a two-year-old’s tantrum tears,
and rocks stop skipping when
inertia gives in to gravity.
Clocks stop ticking when the
gears start to rust,
and hearts stop beating, like
a melody too tired to play.
Just as “I love you” stops buzzing like
insects in my head,
and you stop caring whether or not
we see each other that day.
Eventually, our time here will stop, too.
And looking back,
maybe you’ll wish
that I never stopped and that
you never gave yourself
the chance to.
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 11:45 PM UTC
Everything stops.
Rain stops falling like
a two-year-old’s tantrum tears,
and rocks stop skipping when
inertia gives in to gravity.
Clocks stop ticking when the
gears start to rust,
and hearts stop beating, like
a melody too tired to play.
Just as “I love you” stops buzzing like
insects in my head,
and you stop caring whether or not
we see each other that day.
Eventually, our time here will stop, too.
And looking back,
maybe you’ll wish
that I never stopped and that
you never gave yourself
the chance to.
