writing here again. no one notices anyway, which is excellent.

i saw pictures of a friend somewhere. and it made me sad. there was a little pang that i couldn't explain, looking at the tanned, weather-beaten smile.

lines cannot be crossed. i knew that from the start. this one more so.

it'll be gone soon enough.

 sad fact: you're not going to come around.

how shall i say this. where do i even start.
i guess this is the state i am in: words are trying to leave my mouth and they fail utterly, they fall like dead leaves and rotten twigs. what, really, what more can i say? this is not an axe you've dropped. this is a line you cut and you kept me hanging. but i should've seen it coming. this is a disfiguring scar that ripped and bled. this is me in the wind, severed.

i can't begin to ask if i still matter. a question that never bears answering.

i can spell traitor with my fists against a blank wall, but what good would that do?

there was a road and on that road was a fork, a turn.  i should've known we weren't riding an endless highway under an eggshell sky.

so this is how it goes. we fall flat. just like this.

this is the second time. a glance shot is an arrow shot.
we can't go on like this.

or can we.

An t-éan bán ag eitilt gan stró as do bhéal. Agus mise I mo sheasamh faoi do sholas géar. Na síoda ag titim barr do theanga. Níl mé abalalta na focail ceart a rá leat.
Ba mhaith liom na sléibhte is airde a dhreapadh agus na focail a bhéicil amach os cionn na scamaill is airde. Nior fagadh na focail agam. Grá mór, grá fior, grá an domhain, is é an grá is laidir. Tá mé I ngrá leat.


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