bocold

and your love has left me on this island it has filled my cup up to the brink yet I grow thirsty in this silent

you once told me the wind is silent how his sound only be heard through collision last night, he cried with a violent yearning while he tore through the trees

The moon ever meant to be a satellite, kept in loving orbit, locked in hopeless inertia, destined to repeat the same pattern over and over --to meet in eclipse with the sun-- only when the numbers allowed.

for now, his face is all a blur, like a memory kept too long