(no subject)
Those that I love are like a crystal bowl that I have dropped on pitch black asphalt.
I try to pick up the shards one at a time, but each one sticks into my fingers.
I pull each shard out, and there is an emptyness left behind; my fingers are covered with dozens of painful, bleeding memories.
I try to pick up the shards one at a time, but each one sticks into my fingers.
I pull each shard out, and there is an emptyness left behind; my fingers are covered with dozens of painful, bleeding memories.