Date Published: October 13, 2025
Time Published: 2:47 PM
Category : Prose
Theme: Reopening old wounds as you let your lover rekindle her flames for someone special from her past as you let go of her.
The phases of the moon have matched us long before we knew, from its waxing crescent to its fullest bloom until it fades like birthday blues. The leaves from the spring died the moment your name was sprouted, coloring the lovely red roses with the darkest hue.
The clouds have covered the dimming lights from the moon, and I shall have the right to stare and talk about this open wound; meeting you was more of a mirror reflecting someone I should've been rather than a newfound friend. You are what she's longed for and what I keep trying to be; you were a fragment of memory that was so alive—almost able to replace me.
It's becoming a long-shot view, for I never once heard your voice nor shook your hand, and I'm writing about what you can do that I'm powerless to do no matter how much I tried to. I can picture it easily for you two: a white picket fence, a house with a design of her choice, and two kids that will carry your legacy and be mesmerized with your love story. It will never get old for them and it will grew with grief to me.
However, I would never completely shut my doors down for her, and you will block it like how you've been wanting to. I insisted on not playing any games; I'm rather aware that she's loved you long before learning how to spell nor write a letter. And I was loved after your sweet tooth dreams—so no—I would never win. If she's loved you unconsciously, what makes you doubt that her consciousness will completely remove the feelings that was once promised to be unconditionally?
If heart remembers and you are a vivid dream of hers, someone somewhere along the way she's included in her prayers, was I the storm that's supposed to challenge what you've built for each other? Am I the way I am because I'm molded to prove the strength of the past that never seems to haunt her as it taunt me.
Do not mistake my words; I blame no one but the crippling insecurities and hopes of what could've been. The guilt of an unplanned future that I've seemed to ruin will embark on its unwritten journey all over the pages of my diary. I would create your novel if I must as a piece of my apology for continuing something that's not even mine to read and I even dare to write a part of it.
And so, I let go of the pen containing every passion that I could ever give—smudging the ink of every piece of my being into nothingness. I was never taught to steal, so I must give her heart back to you—the first ever warmth that embraced every trail of her veins. The first ever eyes that pondered on her beauty, the first ever mind to think about her smile, the first ever ear that thirsted for her laughter.
With my trembling hands that can no longer write, these wounds will be stitched together by time. These teary eyes will one day look up at the clear skies—but for now, I must grieve.
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