my little moonshine, you could've been eighteen today. do you feel old? a year has passed now and my heart could no longer make room for someone else but you.
i wish this was just a fever dream, a fleeting nightmare i could awaken from. but i hear there should be no pain but the inks are still bleeding on this paper—oh shoot. my blood. my tears. they're spilling onto the pages forming the words we only speak of in silence.
this will be the last time, i promise. for i will lay next to you in the elysian waters where the salt air tingles our noses, the sultry summer entangles the warmth of the sea and we could look at the dying moon the same way as before. i will burn this city and cast the ashes to the ocean so we could rebirth its wreckage and build a life anew there.
just a little bit longer, my love. our love will blossom in felicity. we will be forever young, forever free. we will forever be seventeen.
๓.
delilah
YOU ARE READING
17, Still Can't Swim
Poesiashe took madness too seriously, all written in paper with her own blood.
