The slow cracks would be sealedlike slow moving streams of music on the radio airwaves, the voices of frustration builds up in her, burning her reasoning, making me boil with disappointment, with a tinge of anger. She looks at me with an indifference, her tone sharp, hurting. I look at her with emptiness, gradually accepting the fact that she wouldnt want to speak about it. Time slowly ticks by, as the world moves on, but the time on the bond between us was on a standstill. A cause for concern, but the ambulance of Care never did come. And i was left, like a stranded patient, in the middle of her world, the cracks on the floor slowly opening up.i pray i wouldnt fall into her pit of despair. but like a waterfall that would rage in the beginning, to end up in a slow moving stream of tranquility, the beauty of Love and trust shines through. The problems gradually become a thing written in black and white, in poetic prose, or just mental memories hidden in the mind, and in a small note diary for big kids. The wonder of a talk in the blowing wind on the 19th floor can be amazing for the soul, chicken soup by two confused person, where she would say that her problems were blown away. We were like small pebbles in the sand, the sand surrounding our problems, covering them, while we pebbels, unique yet similar, continue our slow descent into the railings of time, into the subway station of Love. everyone would be confused, the starting point of a relationship, affection, intimacy, mental or physical. Sharing. i would have her to tell me her problems, but she would refrained, because of the fact that i would worry about it too much. But i would worry anyways, like how the Gods would worry about their Earthly affairs. there are some things that couldnt be helped. me: dont tell me about liking [my previous crush]. Like in Bridget Jones, i like you for who you are. Nothing else. Her: i... And its you when i look in the mirror. Justin ranted at 9:22:00 pm on the |