Once when I was naive, I met a person with your name and I
spun endless small talks back and forth as if I was testing the waters,
planning to run but wanting to stick around for a little while more to find out if it
was the name that brought me happiness.
All the while it felt like I was holding on to my guns with the pin off.
Like dancing on a mezzanine floor.
Like every step was a round of Russian roulette.
You know, you can only forget so many things.
The way your name echoes whenever I hear it being said is still decorated with love, a
bold wine stain on a white dress.
The blood rush made me thought that I could find and rip the core excuse I made up
to cling on to you
and paste it onto a surface stranger so I could live on but there isn’t such a thing.
No such thing as the surface scratched.
I was drowning.
You didn't even see the signs.
