i hid your real face between the beige-coloured pages of my journal and they are all smeared in black ink. i'd keep track of every possible exposure of your being. nihilistically, we are on a hiding to nothing in the long run. didn't you think we wouldn't make it too? i was helpless, but it was less likely of you to have helped me.
this year, i bought a new journal hoping it would help me find the illusive path of putting myself first and not you. i remember we didn't talk for minutes, hours, weeks, years and you eventually lost me. i feel sorry for you. the curiosity and frustration must've been so heavy that you're buckling under the weight of it all.
i see nowadays you're somewhere to be found wandering in the streets, lost. but thank the heavens, you didn't fall into your own illusion, that you somehow managed to survive. you know, most of the time you were the perfect hero, i feel really sorry for you now that you don't even exist in my journal.
YOU ARE READING
kalopsia
Poetry[ka-lop-se-a] Greek (n.) the delusion of things being more beautiful than they really are.
