The bruise is softer now. Apology that I never gave nor received, settled in me, deep in the sediment of my core.
None of our past I regret. I cherished the lovely images, especially the ones we lied so badly of. There would be no written record on my behalf anymore and the only existing proof we were ever us is the repertoire inside my head. When I die, I'll take them to my grave. This love is the city of Atlantis. Exist once, lost once, never found, people heard of it; yet, did it?
The bleeding becoming tender and I am sure of one simple thing: March is March. Spring isn't coming but there will be rainy mornings all around. I am leaving, until I have something else worth writing of. Until I do, I hope you'll keep safe.
It's been months that the rose kept in that mason jar bruised into this ugly blister. Three words, soaking in blood, now invalid.
Stay safe.
