Moors of morose must have been cultivated oceans of tranquility. I think. I behold in. But do you not still wait for me holding the door knob?
If you were me I would have vehemently rolled the door knob craving you to perceive outside. My eyes would get smoothened. My smithereens heart would accumulate itself rapidly resilient. Don’t you cook one ample dish now forgetting we are bifurcated by worldly laws?
If I were you I would have done this resilient mistake anytime. I don’t repent on separation exactly instead I propitiate on being unable to see you. Now I have lost the right, never the need, to behold and sit beside you. I guess you have repainted the south wall of yours. Red was my favourite. Was. Now I prefer blue. Favourites tend to shift on the course of time. Are all memories decrepit now?
Life has no dustbin to exhale wastes. Here maybe everything is in prerequisite. I have grown a non-sober milieu. I made my ears with heart to countenance sonorous entities. Life is devoid of blinds unlike windows to get rid of futile yellow rays. Your evocative leftovers are enough now. Life and love is portent-free. I am feeling suffocated in this wistful vastness suffuse with hollow. Where are you treading now?
Close the echoing lake may be being someone’s magnanimous shore. I have my senses perpetually stabbed with sharp resentments. Depraved discomforts have been encompassing myself since the wreckage. Rubbles of heart are heavier than life’s one. I realise now.
– From someone you divorced soulfully.
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