The morning after is deafeningly hollow – that same half-goodbye and the same kiss on cheek. I no longer trace the steps backwards into the night, as there is no beauty in chasing the void in my heart. Underneath that cathedral were two strangers in the dark, toying with false innocence.
As I have aged, I have become more disengaged with that girl on Bus 323. This winter rain soaks my paper heart, letting the ink run from the words that I long ago etched across the chambers. Words that have lost their youth, enduring now as pretty lines on this tiled floor.
What I would give, to be whole.
What he would give, to burn those ages.