a story about patience

there is always something in her lungs,

and sometimes, they are too heavy and weary.

something in her heart too,

they feel like ghosts, they taste bitter,

and haunt her like those stories:

dark times, a castle colored in grey,

fading moonlight, and a willingness to stay.

"would it be okay if i take this heart out? days inside here are way too painful."

"days here start with the sun but, what if i told you, it could tear your heart raw?"

she thinks, maybe that was the first day of wearing our heart on our sleeve, 

only an appropriate name of hopeless wishes.

she thinks, the heart bloom in many kinds of ways.

she thinks it's weird,

because she would never choose to bloom,

while drowning.

(there is always something about loneliness when you are not supposed to feel lonely, and existence feels a little too much for something we never asked for.)

(we never crossed the lines when fate is something we swallow, from the day we cried for the first time.)

but still, she waits.

until days of winter choose to fall into slumber.

until days of spring are hers again.

a story about patience, 121220