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“Not this time, baby. Go on ahead without me. I’ll see you two later.”
Ghosts are sadness and regret. Our hearts bleed as much as the living.
With the darkness of night, the human soul finds solace in being hidden—fewer eyes to interrogate you for the odd joys you hold in your heart.
Like a withering candle left out in the cold, surely to hush and diminish as expected.
Hurt people tend to hurt people.
This lovely phantom is the very image of tragedy. She is a ballad of mournful movements, bones, and tattered lace—a symphony unlike any I’ve endured.
Life is a circus of betrayal and dread. Nothing good stays and nothing bad ever really goes. Death is nothing more than a somber replay of it all.
He is silence in the form of flesh. He is a damaged soul. He is one who thinks so fervently that he finds his thoughts suffice for unspoken words, perhaps.
“They are my take on yearning. You see, the moth is darkness, chasing the butterfly, craving the brightness of it. But when the moth is the one running, the butterfly, being light, chases it in return, unable to exist without the moth, because without darkness there is no light.”
We are meant to find our reasons, our tethers to this world, as one. Please. I won’t beg for anything, but I will for you.”
“When our voices die, I’ll trace my fingers across your skin and tell you stories with my touch.”
“Your light is contagious. Bright. I could find you in the depths of the underworld. Through mist and darkness. Through it all.”
I love you, Lanston. Until the stars die. Ophelia
“I want my love to haunt you. Until the stars die—until all the water in the ocean dries and we’re all that’s left in this cruel, dark world.”
