If the past is dead and gone and the future has never occurred then we glow like bad lanterns, ashen and burnt. Hung from old lampposts, barely lighting the way. But winter is coming and I am afraid.
Leaving early, taking the long way home, I’ve never seen the streets so quiet and so still. You caught me with my stolen glances, second-guessing if what you found was real. I found beauty in this constant change, so no longer will our shadows violently trade shapes across lamp lit streets or through your darkest dreams. A separation born with distance in mind, there you’ll find me keeping old ghosts at bay, losing ourselves in who we were then and who we are today. I’ve fucked up everything.
I see death every day; it’s in the leaves and in the trees. It’s in your constant hesitation and the way you look at me. I would have stolen the moon for you that night. Right hand to God, I swear I tried.
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