To me, it's December all over again.
Greetings to the days of no phone calls and no messages.
I am doing good in this place, although there is this kind of sadness holding on to me like a silk thread sometimes. It's you, you know. Tugging on me like you're telling me you're not leaving, but your foot is halfway out the door. And the thread gets a little bit frayed until the time you say goodbye.
I prayed to God; I tell Him of you. I ask of Him that if you were never mine, let us fall apart without hurt. I'm unsure if this is an answered prayer or everything else I have asked of. I hope you're also happy surrounded by airplanes and images of the skies above your head. The skies hang these clusterfuck stars and space. I look up at the dippers and hunters and crosses a few days ago with my friends. My stomach are swirling and hurting of lingering phantom laughters but I am in fact, very very empty.
I know that no matter how far I run, I won't be no one else but still me. The same lonely person that pushes people away out of fear. I will never know how to not be lonely. This August, I'm going home and I hope to trace back what was the thing that made me bitter about people. I do not know any of these faces. I do not know their hearts. I know your face, I still do not know your heart. Yet, when I try to comprehend, you're just them.
Because, perhaps, at one point of my life I decided that I could be just alone. In this place, I am that and so much sadder.
