I’m afraid, I won’t make through them each time.

The smell of your hair and the darkness of the night. It's daylight and I've to wake up to re-realize that you're gone. I go to the kitchen and make a cup of coffee first, to wet my throat before I choke myself from crying for you like I did a month ago. I sit … Continue reading I’m afraid, I won’t make through them each time.

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A Sunday at my house.

On sulking days I want my heart to pour out feelings so I could put them into words but i find nothing, not even what usually comes to me, and I'm drawn to write about the day itself, like right now. It's a weekend. Not a perfect one. My “perfect Sunday” is which in a … Continue reading A Sunday at my house.