It’s beginning to become more difficult; to have a peaceful abode, in the place I’m supposed to call home. The more we try, the less we do it out of love. And I see it’s become more difficult to accept that we’ve grown old, making us forget all that we used to know. Because time moves by so swiftly, but we change so much more quickly; finding it hard to believe that we no longer can live life simply. With every word yelled, every thought kept to ourselves, ever tear hidden from one another; we choose to outburst in anger, at our last moment together. Because someone once told us that tears are made for the weak. But yet when you’re away, and I remain, all alone in our shared pain, we continuously weep for what used to be. Then I really begin to wonder, how much longer can my hands keep their grip? How much longer do we have till we accept the wilting of our blossomed heart? Because the more I see the sun fold, the more it feels like we were just a beautiful dream.
ns 15.158.61.23da2
Penana
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