Full Moon
from Pexels;

The night falls in its most deceptive form and the cold breeze of the air passes through his window, down to the dancing curtains. The light of the moon sifts to the cloth until it illuminates the dark space of his bedroom.

On the bed, where the white rumpled sheets linger, he lights up his cigarette and she watches him drink the white smokes—into his lungs and still. She sits before him in a distance too far to rekindle what they have done, in her rawest form of scars and stitches and skins, but he continues to take care of his lovely white stick, unfazed by her dilemma.

Should she leave? Would he let her? What will happen from here?

Oblivious to her being, he closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs. He wants to tell her something—anything, as long as he can fill the soundless tension. But his lips do not move and he let them be.

The words build mountains until it occupies her eyes and his answer. The transparent tears glide down to her cheeks, but she watches him still; she searches the infinite in the midst of the silence, the brokenness and the void, and she finds nothing, but her own. For the first time since she has arrived and accepted his frantic skin, she closes her eyes.

All of these while he craves to open his mouth to let her know he wants her to stay.


Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.


2 thoughts on “mountains.

let me hold your words before you leave;

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