hoax

Love doesn't burn here - it smolders. Slowly, like a cigarette burning down to the filter, leaving the smell of loss on your fingers. Everything beautiful in it has already happened, and then the aftertaste began - bitter, icy, inevitable. It is not hysteria or supplication, but a weary admission that the pain has become almost familiar.

She is like a faded photograph, where the sun has gone behind the clouds, but no one thought to call it back. When your heart beats not for someone, but simply out of inertia. When you know the password to an old door and still go in - not because you need to, but because you can't help yourself.

It's sad, beautiful, and a little embarrassing that even destruction can sound so gentle.