But its only when I take long walks in dark, reclusive nights,
I realise.
I realise that these leaves are no different than my own self.
Crumbled, dry and disowned.
Sharp edges with a fragile soul.
There's so much to say,
so much to show,
the days when raindrops never left my embrace,
the days when I used to be evergreen under the touch of sunlight,
but all those days have faded a little too soon,
and now there's nothing to do,
nothing to do, but to hear my own cries in the depths of these rustles.
YOU ARE READING
The Untold Stories.
Short Story// The Untold Stories. \\ " We're about the books we read, and the poems we love." - Kritika Banerjee. A collection of paragraphs, nanotales, poetry and thoughts from my journey. Highest Rank - #78 in short stories on 29/6/17 ...
