This is the bright-eyed youth.
there’s no one to hear you.
And when spring blooms again, the trees begin anew.
Magic is not all sparks and happiness.
her slumbering body is marred with wounds.
in these pages you left behind, your lyrics left unfinished, i will write the rest of your song.
it used to be us. now, it’s just me.
they are unwanted. so they are spurned.
is this a form of torture especially designed for me? to torture me with the worst until i give in? but give in to what – an unknown i have no knowledge of?
my hand grasps nothing but air and memories where you used to stand.