If you ask me about hope, I’ll tell you about the days when it knocks on my door and I don’t answer. When it comes to soften edges and feed phantoms. When it’s the cruel caller, the corpse at the door. When it waits dead. On those days, I don’t want what it brings, so I become the wind. I tear the roof from this house and the sky falls in: old wounds shake loose.
I miss those September nights. Being soft, floating between your smile and the things I can’t explain, like how some things end before they ever begin, or how something so beautiful can be so destructive. I’ve looked love straight in the eyes, the sweetest heartache, dressed in white. I’ve rearranged my brain just to wrap my heart around it and somehow, I still find myself bound to you in the softness of those September nights.
I thought we’d make it, I really did. But fate had other plans for us in the end.