we won't cry anymore

more than friends, less than lovers

We exist. In the hushed whispers of twilight, where the sun melts beneath the horizon and shadows waltz upon the walls. Our connection, a silent truth, an ethereal thread weaving through the tapestry of our souls. We are more than friends, but less than lovers, suspended in a liminal realm where desire and restraint intertwine like the ancient branches of a tree.

In your mind, this labyrinth of shadows and light, twists and turns with the unpredictable ebb and flow of your emotions, A piece of me is lost. You are a storm, beautiful in your chaos, yet fragile in your fury. I am drawn to your tempest, longing to calm the turbulent seas within you, but I am not your anchor. I am but a wanderer, lost in the depths of my own emotional naivety.

My heart, unseasoned and tender, lacks the wisdom to navigate the treacherous waters of your psyche. I fumble, my hands too small to hold the weight of your pain, my words too clumsy to offer solace. I am a child playing in a garden of thorns, enchanted by the beauty, yet unaware of the danger.

For a moment, in the quiet moments when the world fades away, we find each other. Your eyes, windows to a soul battered by unseen battles, meet mine, and for a fleeting heartbeat, we are understood. No words are needed; the silence speaks volumes. By a butterflies kiss we are linked, bound by an invisible force that neither of us can fully comprehend, yet both of us feel with undeniable certainty.

In this delicate dance of almost-love, we sway to a melody only we can hear. It is a song of longing, of what-ifs and could-have-beens, played on the strings of our intertwined hearts. We know the steps by heart, yet we never reach the final note, always teetering on the edge of something profound and unreachable.

I am the moon, distant and cold, reflecting the light of your sun. You are the fire, fierce and consuming, burning bright with the intensity of a thousand stars. Together, we create a celestial symphony, a harmony of contrasts that defies the ordinary. We are the epitome of contradiction, a testament to the beauty found in the imperfect, the incomplete.

And so, we remain, more than friends, less than lovers. Our love, if it can be called that, is a whisper in the wind, a fleeting glimpse of something both fragile and eternal. We are bound by the threads of our own making, tied to each other in a way that defies logic and reason.

In the end, perhaps that is enough. To be connected, even in our imperfections, is a gift. To know that, despite the storms and the shadows, there is a place where we are understood, where we are not alone. And in that place, we find solace, even if only for a moment.