We drift within vanished memories, our obscured
individuality.
Each experience —
a hollow fragment of oneself we can't hold.
Our hands though clasped,
can never tangle into one.
No storm could shatter the walls each long hold.
Our souls orbit in polyphony,
never quite colliding.
Intimacy pirouettes at the extremity of an abyss–
silently.
A fissure runs between two hearts
beating synchronously,
yet searching solitude.
Our hearts–
a silent sea where longing wanders away.
I trace the marks on your face,
quietly, deeply.
Hoping a map could lead to the depths,
of your soul.
But I am trapped in shadows of uncertainty,
where words flounder
and secrets lie.
We lean towards one another,
yet inwardness no matter how close–
guarantees a distance.
Perhaps we aren't lovers but actors playing.
Here I am lying –
in the void of emptiness,
refusing to accept that distance kills intimacy.
In my mind,
remains fragments of our memories.
Maybe we never truly found love–
only lost in each other's embrace.
@noirwhisky
Its somehow related to the writer itself it feels like one situation in our relationship with my bf, though we are with each other I feel like we're detached emotionally, like how i perceived things as different from others, we see things differently, like if i tell him what i feel, he'll view it in a different way In his own consciousness, in his own world, the writer feels that the barriers which separates them in loving each other, is their own individuality, though they're close with each other they never expresses their self truly. The writer weren’t sure if it’s love or not, but deep down, beneath the deepest part of her heart lies the unspoken wish. Hoping it's true even if it's really not.
