And she loved him. She loved him with every closing of those familiar sliding doors, every glide of cigarette smoke, every last chime of wine-stained laughter. And she missed him, waking with that dull ache of reality as morning crept across her body. His smell had long left her room, but his mark was still scorched on her skin, in a place that could never quite heal.
But time had passed and drastic decisions had long been fixed in their ways. He would never love her. His passion began and ended on those cold January days, whilst she carried on burning. She made sure the flame lay low, deep inside where no one would discover the burning ash inside of her lungs. So she filled her days with empty conversations and tried to put people in gaps that just didn’t fit. She tried to forget him, she honestly did. He was tirelessly flawed and tarnished and painful, but he had a grip on her that her fingers just couldn’t undo. He was a masterpiece of broken glass; a summer’s day without any shade. And without knowing, she would always hope for dark eyes in the countless puddles of blue.
She continued burning away, putting away everything they had once shared at the back of her wardrobe. That is where her monsters would live. And she slowly accepted that she would forever be but a snowflake in his great avalanche; an exhale of smoke in his grand ballroom.
(image via tumblr)