I don't know why I still miss you. Even in the arms of strangers I think of you. I compare others to you, and even through all of the shit you still shine brighter. I must be sicker than I thought. Why do I enjoy this pain of knowing I will never see you? Why do I torture myself over someone who will never love as they are loved? Maybe it's because what we had was unconditional. Maybe it's because I'm one fucked up individual. But then I remember about the bruises, and find a certain spot on my chest still tender to the touch, my own or anyone's. Then I remember, that love is pain and thus eternal.
Forever lost in your eyes.
Short stories, poems, among other play things. A constant work in progress. Forever changing.
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