Prose that may be too bland or too blue;
Random stories that may or may not be true;
All penned by Alice in her times of loneliness;
They shall aid the mind and heart of the restless.
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You found me when I was shattered, and you tried to put me back together. I showed you my scars, and you touched each one, healing them. I told you all my secrets, my dreams, my desires, and you memorized all of them; you stored the information as if they were highly valuable and needed to be archived. For the first time, I had a reason to wake up in the morning and a reason to stay up at night. We talked for hours on end, and we listened to each other. I thought that finally, the present was worth cherishing now that you were here, and the future would look much more promising if I could manage to keep you until then.
But I couldn’t. I feel like I couldn’t.
Slowly, I felt you slipping from my fingers. Your ink was gradually fading from my paper. Hours of talking turned to minutes, then to barely even, then to almost nothing. We went from sharing our favorite songs to sharing excuses. We changed. Perhaps because of time passing by. Perhaps because you simply got tired, or worse, bored. Perhaps because you found a new replacement for me.
It’s really sad, yet I have no right to cry for someone who hasn’t left yet, although it feels like you already did. I have no right to grieve for a relationship that didn’t end because it hadn’t even started. Heck, I think I don’t even have the right to write this.
