The parched
pages of our story remain
I rewrite
them every-night, engraving every minute detail of each bargain every day on
its canvas, colouring them in coral tones, and then washing them off, leaving
them a little bit more parched for the next day. The parched pages of our story
remain.
One
realizes that somewhere down the line, it is easy to loose the will to fight.
But not so easy to stop hating. To stop the tears welling up in the hollow that
is left behind. Not so easy to stop caring.
I recycle
love every-night.
