I have written you letters, countless of them. If only you had persevered to look, you would have found them quite easily. They are now creased and stained with time, these muted lovelies whose souls are reverberated by the deafening magnitude of their faith.
Then perhaps, there will never be the need for these endless questions. And just as well, we wouldn't have the need to dodge answers like bullets.
What do you call that stage, where honesty in black and white is fiction and white lies are brutal as deceit is kind?
I have written you lines to songs I had hoped you'd write the music to. But I guess your chords are as broken as the messy smudge of ink that refuses to come off from my skin.
And you used to write me, I know. You used to tell me of your dreams and hopes and I would know where your sighs were by just tracing my fingertips along the imprints of your pen. You used to know my dreams, too.
But now we're here, tragically trying to forge a friendship that deserves a spit in the eyes and yet, ironically, we persevere. And I don't know why.
