Calling it bittersweet would be the understatement of the century.
Something perfect happens and all I can do is recall the encounter in fond retrospect.
The seasons change and my heart is still trapped in the August summer.
Maybe if I learned the difference between selfless help and selfish sacrifice, I’d find somebody I can genuinely care for.
The bitter aftertaste haunts me much more than the sweetness tantalizes me.
I honestly don’t know how to deal with this.
The absence of his name, the knowledge that he is somewhere else, waking up to the same Sun as me, but with the last thing on his mind being me, it’s unfair.
But being fair is a dream and all I can do is try to convince myself that he is a terrible human being in hopes that I can forget him as easily as what I had for dinner last week.
It’s a hard thing, knowing you have no choice but to simply watch your dreams slip through your fingers, whether or not you had a chance to catch them.
I’ve shed the poor droplets long enough to say I’ve run dry.
Honey pancakes can sweeten up the bitter truth.