That Which Was Spilled

Sometimes, I just forget to love people. They ride upon a moment and appear, and like the moments, I let them go. It’s like the task feels so difficult at times. They rush in too fast, wait for no permission, smile past, breeze past, like that dialogue from a movie in a theatre you couldn’t pause at and savour.

In hindsight, you fall in love with their memories. You smile back. A little late. A point in time a little distant. In a space where desolation has slowly but inevitably grown around you. Into you. Staring steadfast. And you let the tiny countless lights of regret blink on, like the ritual of festivity in a city of love. It is all so inevitable. Like every trinket of failure in life, we fail in life to emanate just enough love.

We fail to love more times than we manage to fall in love. Then we forget when.

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3 thoughts on “That Which Was Spilled

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