narin

Words here fall apart like cigarette ash - they sound like they used to, but they no longer have any meaning. Love is lost, but memory stubbornly holds on to images: photographs, empty parks, conversations that you want to erase with an eraser. Everything seems shaky and unreal - people are nearby, but it's pointless, as if everyone is playing their character in a nighttime play.

There is a slight naivety in the confession: “I thought my heart was one, but it turned out not to be.” There is an almost childlike surprise mixed with the weariness of an adult who already knows the price of deception and promises. And yet, amid all this haze, tenderness breaks through: it was not words or vows that were special, but eyes. It is they that reveal the truth that no phrase can hold back.

The result is a bitter confession about how the night makes a person a stranger, and the morning makes them even more distant. But there is something warm and honest in this sadness: an admission of weakness always sounds more alive than the most correct words.