654 Days.
One year, nine months, eight days.
Yet I walk into my childhood home and still expect to see my mother in the hallway.
I'm not sad, it's just . . . does the empty space where you expect them to be ever fill up? Or do we carry around these emptinesses forever, like negative silhouettes inside of us?
Yet I walk into my childhood home and still expect to see my mother in the hallway.
I'm not sad, it's just . . . does the empty space where you expect them to be ever fill up? Or do we carry around these emptinesses forever, like negative silhouettes inside of us?