For the things that could be that look better than the things that are…’
Sometimes people leave places, and you’re left behind with the weight of that absence. Because love can be everything, but never enough. You can be everything, but never enough.

To remember you now is to deceive the moon pretending it has light of its own. So how do I forget you? Is utter destruction the only way forward?

Busted train stations, crowded streetways why do things always feel better when they’re worn out? The sweater hidden in the cupboard for months smells sweeter now that I wear it. Somehow, keeping it tucked away all this time has made it remember you too. It feels warmer now.

But perhaps I don’t feel that way with you. Perhaps I never did.

These are the Words of My Wounds the echoes I never said aloud. And still, they return, again and again.

Because in the end, pain has memory. And memory has a voice. These are the Words of My Wounds.