You like the arts; books, paintings, words that appeal to the soul.
It's a pity you don't read much these days, but I know you enjoy Greek mythology.
I know little about gods and nymphs and Olympus and Antioch. Even less about their endeavours and strives.
But I'm aware of Icarus, the sun: us.
I have wings made of wax in this story; you remain unreachable in this one too.
Soaring, I reach out to you. I burn for you, silently. Yearning and hurting and yearning some more to get closer even though it's hard and impossible to have you.
There is pain. But isn't that what love is? Long suffering? Enduring? Unconditional?
I'm not sure. I'm melting again.
And falling.
YOU ARE READING
Melting Confessions
Historia CortaMusings of a girl, tied to a love which is hers only when eyelids shut and heartstrings are tugged. A mish-mash of unsent letters from the heart, wishes to galaxies from the mind, and melting confessions from sealed lips.
