of how our insecurity resonate through our tears, of how our love ones wither in the spring when our happiness reach its mountain-level peak.
But my hand is on yours,
and yes, it stutters,
reeks of scars and black past of many moons, I dare not conf irm of our own future, for it is hidden in the red valley of blood.
But this hand of mine, on yours, is me telling you that, well live through the day.
Maybe.
Hush, my Love, hush, for I am scared too, for this black sun to arise.
