sjsprWriting

That misleading reason for why my wallet was depleted, often repeated, is more delicate than those lonely evenings around flames that were oft-fleeting; quite like me, who was always so bent on leaving. The consequence of our unshared breathings misconstrues my secret meetings as something tantamount to deceiving. I wish you could believe in something slightly less defeating than what I had been feeding, to you, but trust it is more convenient by letter than to reconvene in that old house we used to dream in. It’s a shame we became so weakened, to not even want to sleep in, that deepened piece of mattress that our nightmares used to creep in. The toughest days, where I only got to peak in, your mind- constantly streaking- so unnatural at perceiving: what is that he’s keeping, hidden, can I leap in? To that heart that’s barely beating, why is it that you’re not sleeping, here, with me? Can you sneak in? The pieces that never reached in, the ones that would have me shrieking, unscathed but half-beaten, off the deep end, can you sweeten what you’ve cheapened?

I cannot,

I’m sorry.