It was reflecting—slowly creeping into the small, cracked part of my window. Running his cold, sweaty palm on my forehead and onto the crevasses of my already fragile soul. It is growing like small plants waiting to sprout in dry concrete, blossoming into a wild forest waiting for the blessing of the sun and being showered by the rain.

It creeps softly, masked by the greenery, sometimes vibrant and with a scent of fresh linen sheets and apple slices or newly painted canvases dried out by the cool breeze of the weather, and everyone is smiling, glorious, and incandescent.

But it was also reflecting—slowly creeping into the small crack of my window. Where my room speaks a foreign language and my pillow beats achingly; where breathing morphs into a shadow—eventually walking by your side, so quietly you couldn’t even notice.

As time passes, loneliness remains present
Suddenly, the breeze metamorphoses,
Myself roams aimlessly like the seeds of the dandelions,
Once again, the thought of you...
Never fails to efflorescence,
Stop asserting to me that, with the passage of time,
Complete healing of a given affliction will certainly occur...
Because I am still mourning..