I have mighty respect for the father's who go out to buy milk and never come back, thankyou for not ruining your children's lives.

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All tumbling down to the same old crimson~

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I often perceive my tears as molten diamonds which crystallise to bleed through the pages of my forlorn memoir,
The messy ink doesn't signify the escapism from a blemished fantasy,
Nor is it a cry of peace from the heavens above,
Rather an acceptance of the affliction I persevere~

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Her tears were like the glitter of sunlight on a still lake,
And the rainstorm in a river,
Her heart lied somewhere in between, neither empty for something to fill in, nor full for something to release

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And on my silent days, I miss you a little louder...

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Of raindrops and jasmines~

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What a plot twist you were

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And here I am, sitting here on the cold hard tiles of my store room, in the early dawn of November,
I open the big old red suitcase of all our winter woolen clothes and hold each one, relishing their smell and memories,
My feet cold, my heart warm, I bunch up a scarf in my hand and hug it close to my chest,
Blanketing myself with warmth, my heart with memories and my eyes with the end of the little piece of cloth,
Where your initials lie...

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I finally realised I never mattered,
I was just a twilight full of infused hues,
Not worthy of trust,
Just something to be called beautiful from far away,
For the hue was claimed to be changing,
But all it owned were additions,
Additions to a bundle of broken trusts,
Tired of accusations, hoping to be wiped.

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To the mirror on the wall~

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