Sometimes in the darkest moments, I like to pretend you're here, next to me. I like to pretend how familiar yet so foreign your face is in the pale moonlight, I like to pretend you're reading a book somewhere next to a river, so wide and my heart wishes it to be true; to hang onto a memory of you, even if it's just deceit. I like to pretend this melancholy isn't a disease waiting to be cured.
God forbid, if I ever would want to give up the feeling of constant emptiness, for it is a sin to break the decorum of art.
In the sorrows of today,
In the sorrows of tomorrow,
In the sorrows of the days to come, I hope we never meet, for I wouldn't want to lose my sanity over you.
(1/3)
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