And everything else, come and understood, of everything about us.
We spoke of things that are not yet present. Nor past. Nor future, nor now.
This talk is going nowhere. But Im okay, this is not going to hurt me, Love.
It is the absence of such that makes me feel lonely, sitting here on a bench beside you, hungry for your words and smile. If you do not want me to get hurt,
Then please, play that song of ours, and let the occasion takes place, so we can be merry.
No.
I guess not. I guess, I am here, and I am not.
I am not for what I am here.
Love.
I do not know where is here.
And where is how. I do not know where I am, after you close all the windows and songs.
And Love.
Now you see me.
And now you let me.
Though longing for my presence, I am here.
Rot.
Dying.
Of absence from your song.
