one thing i never write about is the flowers you left everyday on my doorstep,
they don't smell of love, i even thought it should, at least, smell like apologies but they dont,
they smell of revenge in the sweetest way possible, the kind that hurts the nose but you can't complain, for it's a personal attack that affects only to whom it is intended to be given,
they smell of guilt that cling to your shirt, the smell that makes you want to burn the clothes even before you take them off, the reminder you never want to be reminded of, that you taught someone to grieve and forgot to teach how to move on,
they smell of confusion, that everyday i am tempted to look back to see if i come out of tombstone instead of door.
"The pale stars were sliding into their places. The whispering of the leaves was almost hushed. All about them it was still and shadowy and sweet. It was that wonderful moment when, for lack of a visible horizon, the not yet darkened world seems infinitely greater—a moment when anything can happen, anything be believed in."