When the silence of the empty hours gnaws at my broken soul I think of that night when we lay together, my head resting on your arm and your other hand on my back.
I do not wonder then do you think of me like I still think of you, I do not wish to know whether your love for me was an illusion which you painstakingly painted with every whispered song in my ear.
Love, what a funny silly word.
When I think of that night, I curse not our fate, I damn not the circumstance. I am not angry at what it had been and how it could have been. I do not sulk at the unfavorable turn of events.
It really does not pain me that you are not around, I don’t think I miss you much. I still do hear you in my head but your voice is slowly fading.
It should have been, I never lament. I am just glad, that it was. That you are. That we were.