for some time now i have been thinking about the possibilities of my beloved having drowned in the same abyss as my own. i will not ask them—no, i do not think i can, because for the longest time i thought that it was only i whose lungs had been suffocated with the inner conflict of whether or not my thoughts meant something, the confusion of whether or not what i had been feeling were mere ghosts of forgone memories.
for reasons like this i have decided to remain sunken, a living ship wreck, half fallen apart. how dare i assume the best of them when i knew fully how sorrow shines the brightest when Moon hides herself, too cowardly to confront Night.
perhaps i have been achingly comfortable with the growing silence of dusk. all are quiet except chirping birds and a few hundred tireless, dissonant fragments of the mind. how frightfully calm they become as day breaks—a melancholic melody
this is when i decide i probably should stay awake to let life flash before my eyes for another day.
I wrote this after finally having realized that my close friends have been through the same things as me. They expressed them through poetry, like I do.
Surprise, surprise — it's very cheesy and redundant.
