To this stranger that I share a bed with, that I wrap my arms around whispering goodnight to. To this stranger that I used to hold their hands to, now swing at my sides empty. Now we walk separate, longing for more space yet to be closer than ever before. I don't know them anymore. I don't know those hands, that voice, their lips are foreign. At what point should we let go? When should we move on? In which state do we let this old love perish before we completely forget who the other had been? Are you just a memory?
I'd wish to stand by, ghosting my finger tips on your waist, my lips against your eat trying to bring you in. I know how you desire the fixing more than the let go. The solution more than the broken. Where are we? How can we get back or move on when we're stuck on grounds of porcelain roads? How can my trust regain composer when the betrayal is still leading? How does the flame lead us, when it can barely ignite? To rest on these lands for good, stuck in an endless cy