Every blue moon you ask for perfection while I ask for affection but somehow all I get is an infection of an incurable disease. I wish loneliness was like stealth, some simple word for inner peace but it is not. It’s a reflection of how much of yourself you have given to strangers who never appreciate you. But they do sure as hell remember you when even their perfect world and little bubbles burst.
Somehow the word brings back memories of holding the hand of many when the rain poured and the ones they adored the most were nowhere to be found.
“Hi, you still remember me?” Is all my heart keeps saying even though I am sad to admit it.
Someone once said letting go doesn’t make you a bad person and I’ve come to a point where I agree with that statement.
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