and so here's an ode
to all stories –
to the old, the new,
and the yet to be written.

your love bled
just like the pen did
everytime it tried
to fill in the empty pages;
and just like that
it ended just the same.
for all that was
left now were stories.
and only the stories remained.

I love.
I weep.
I stumble and fall.
and I rise up;
and experience it all again.

she glanced at the way he looked at her;
so full of love;
of hurt;

she envies her;
she's jealous of the fact that she can catch his
attention without an effort;

whilst no matter what she do;
he will never notice her;

she wishes to take away all his pain;
but how could she?
she's just another girl from the crowd.

words, words, and words.
both therapeutic and toxic,
dark and bright,
empty and full,
their beginning and their end,
words.

i can hear them banging
inside my head,
perhaps this time
they intend to render me dead.

I didn't forget;
I just chose not to remember.

i missed the times where we used to
just watch scary movies and laugh through out it all
instead of being scared;

where we spent late nights on phone calls
and text messages where we
talk about everything and nothing;

where we even notice the small things,
where I paint our moments with a pen and a paper
and you capture it with your camera;

where we can just be happy by doing nothing as long as
we were together;

but we get caught up in the moment of our fights
and misunderstandings;

we started to focus on our differences and
mistaken beginnings;

then just like that our fantasy

c  o  l  l  a  p  s  e  d

with you walking away,
leaving me behind with nothing;

while you walked away with everything.

be
cause
you never
should have
brought me to paris
if you had no plans of
staying in the first place.