Drunken notes belie my compassion. Or perhaps, the evidence of truth, no matter how fleeting a glance it is that I am afforded, shatters the lofty ideals with which I push through every day.

Love, or not even that, can be quite endearing and capturing. It defeats the theoretical promise of devotion and unrequited steadfastness. It chases away the sun that threatens to rise at 5:18am, in favor of small, unnoticed, stupid smiles at what has been seen, even though it has not been experienced.

Truth be told, I sometimes sit up and I have no idea why I love you.

I often quiet myself by telling myself that to get through one day is to get one step closer to fighting the world and staying true, despite being on the sidelines.

Truth be told, I sometimes have no idea why I love you. What am I holding on to? Who are you, when the sun has risen and I no longer have in my heart the pristine memory of you, whom I left 3 years ago? After all, isn't that why I didn't look back?


Please forgive me, I'm feeling fragile at the moment. I'm feeling fragile, but as of yet unbroken. I find myself writing more often now, and thinking more feverishly. Perhaps it is the closeness of this reality which stirs a certain panic in me. Maybe it's because every time, every single time, I envision myself introducing you.

I'm feeling fragile, yet unbroken at the moment. I'm writing much more often now, and that makes me afraid.

Tomorrow must come sooner, though I fear the sunrise.