Someone once told me to take this tragedy inside me and to turn it into art; to paint the walls with my broken heart. So I picked up my palette of mistakes, of strewn bed-sheets & of hands-held and I prayed to a god I did not believe in, for an ending to a story …
I imagine us meeting at abandoned towns with rundown coffee shops, and words would stumble out of our mouths like the way it used to when I first met you that night. But this time the conversations aren’t laced with the sweet perfume of coffee or the tang of nicotine on the back of our …
