peachy

Sometimes love sounds like a beautiful accident. Everything is soft, almost tender - until the first bruise. At first it's peachy, then it falls to the floor, and now the awkward silence smells of something too honest. This isn't about drama, but about fatigue - the kind where you just want to lie face down on your pillow and stop being someone's “dream” for a minute. The music breathes evenly, as if trying to calm you down - but inside, that same pulse is still beating: “Maybe I'm too much?” And maybe you really just need to slow down, not save, not hold on, not run. Sometimes the best “forever” is the one that ends on time.