A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope

by K.M. Moronova

My light died a long time ago—flickering with the many exhales of disapproval until finally, with one big breath, it was blown completely out. Like a withering candle left out in the cold, surely to hush and diminish as expected.

Heartless assholes aren’t born, you know. They’re trained into it. Their souls have been drained early and thoroughly by the wicked people before them. 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.

The way the wind caresses him as he reaches out for me is like a ballad. One that I’ve danced to a million times over but never quite found the right footing to. His light brown hair is chaos and his eyes are a storm of greens, blues, and dashes of yellow. A parchment of sorrowful words written and scrawled—he reminds me of such a somber, nostalgic song—one of sadness and death. One never known. He is a ballad of phantoms… and, perhaps, one of hope.

“Of course, it hurts… I think it always will. But most things that wound your heart like this are worth it. It only hurts because of how precious we hold them. I’m never alone, not really, because I know they will carry the weight of me with them forever.”

“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.”

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.”