Ophelia [a.m]

𝖆𝖈𝖙 𝖎𝖛

Somethings different, it whispers to me in the wind.

I know it's coming.

I don't run.

Abraxas, I can tell you want me to.

But I won't.

It's whispering, drawing nearer with every day and with each second I hold you tighter because I know any moment now -

I'll have to let go.

It's coming and I don't know what to feel or if I shall feel anything at all.

Numb is a great anesthesia, but I'm only human.

Why rob myself of the pain if it's the last thing I'll ever experience?

You want me to run but I won't.

I know it's coming.

The wind whispers to me at night.

It's near.

I won't run.

Not anymore.