After 11pm everything seems like a blur.
Your name is a pixelated image on my screen, I don’t recognize the reason I dialed your number. I’m pretty sure of how desperate I will sound trying to mend something for too long a time, longer than the time I took to create it.
Our tree once a seed, once a prime, once flowering with cherry blossoms, is now only a pile of dirt, it is not even rotting or dying, it is far gone into oblivion. But I still remember.
The oath I once took, “this will not be the same as every other time,” no convince yourself, yes “you are different.” But it wasn’t, not at all. And the only string of differentiation was how you held so tightly, how you wouldn’t after years, forget the moments and memories. But time sweeps away not only dust but glow.
And it is hard to keep remembering the one thing everyone is trying to make you forget. Everyone else has moved on, you are just a child stuck in the intermittent stage of nothing. Still standing so clueless in the middle of your naive confusion, “was it not love?”
You are nothing but a plethora of intensity, you are not love.
beyond 