Almost distant as it was so close to the heart before. Now, that stranger occupies the chamber by the fondest memory that grew along the vines of love. Touched by a single memory and reminded by the flowers that, only blooms from a presence otherwise, hidden behind the shy leaves. Remembered them well enough in memory. That surged of electricity forcing hate as a makeshift to conceal the excited heart. A stranger whom, learned the language of dawn followed by the passing seasons before professing his own adoration. The garden that withers only awaken by the appearance of the stranger. What was thought to be a phase turned into a journey. That garden bloomed for the first time when spring approached.
Everything became accustomed yet, the flowers still decorated the garden. No butterflies other than the constant pace and the intangible gleam resurfacing over the calm river. Should it have fade? or was it the heart's deception in toying the emotions before it was stabbed straight by the true meaning of love. There was no harm rather than the absence of thrill being missed.
*Written at 4.00a.m wanting to grasp that understanding of whether or not others understood that feeling I was trying to convey in my own creative way*
*Written at 4.00a.m wanting to grasp that understanding of whether or not others understood that feeling I was trying to convey in my own creative way*
