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They told me the sky was too far to touch, so I planted it in my garden. All I ever wished was, for a perfect love story with a perfect ending. Perfection is a myth dressed in daisy chains and daydream. It looked so beautiful, like I was sleeping and this was the perfect dream I could reason to myself for a long slumber. I held on, like roots gripping the clouds and growing daisies in the sky that no one else believed would bloom. I let the sky grow in the softness of a “certain hope” always, while I pricked my heart on the thorns of “almost” and “not quite”.

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It’s not just showering love. I want it to cascade in stages, from the crown on your head to the sole that carries the weight of you.

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There goes the power of love I once held—the urge to kiss your bruise, is now just an embrace of nothingness and a quiet “sigh, wish I was there”, from the fading shadow of my own love.

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The silence between thunderclaps held more truth than their noise— a pause, heavy with the weight of everything I didn’t say.

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