"You left." He mumbled with anger evident in his voice. "I told you not to leave." He was floating, one foot from the ground, gripping his dagger. His face was that of a young man, and he never grows old.
The thing is that we hate the idea of letting go, of facing the consequences of our childish acts. We wanted to fly and soar our dreams, we think of thoughts we yearn to have, because we want to forget something, something called 'responsibilities'. He was that. He didn't want to let go. His stubborness was that one thing I loved about him. He was brave, and young—and foolish. He was afraid of reality itself and yet I loved him for that. But time came for me, and I have forgotten how to fly.
"I didn't leave, I grew up." And you've let me.
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To him, the waves (Poetry and Prose)
PoetryMay the sea bring us back. Book 3 of my first poetry series For more books like this, follow @Licornesses.
