The moth clings to the flame the same way a man clings to his shame. Words have no merit here. Promises of a better life, neither here nor there.

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Because in this moment, a woman is broken. Left crying and dying in an ocean of words unspoken. The confusion between love and loss are one and the same. Is she really dying or she is trying to stay sane?

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Maybe a part of her needs to be severed, quick and clean. So that she can understand the man that has a dream to be the best versions of themselves so that they can be one and together, and the in between.

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There is no fault. There is no foul. There is only the look of a bright eyed owl that sees the past, that sees the future. Weaving together some type of suture that heals the ache and stops the rain. The love and familiar life of pain.

 

The hurt cuts deep when you don’t understand how life affects a woman and a man. But carry on, dear lovers, and find your own peace. You still have each other, but not in one piece. Silently dividing and reluctantly abiding, a contingent fate is ultimately deciding…