I thought that loneliness was a safe place to hide away and isolate myself from strangers with
stories still untold, but then I met you.
When I met you, your eyes were a densely packed thick book waiting to be read and understood.
Some people called me a madman, others called me stupid, while many didn’t even bat an eye, I
pursued to read you with all my heart and understand your side of the story.
As time goes by, I started to understand you. Little by little, you showed me the things that
ruined you, you told me about your lines that felt like out of place.
I loaned you my eyes to see that you had the right script but the wrong lines, I lend you my ears
to hear your unsung lyrics, I lend you my shoulders for respite from the haunting eyes and
voices, I lend you my silence so you can voice the thoughts you keep whispering to yourself.
You told me about every terrible thing you did, yet I loved you anyway.
I started to look at you like you were my whole universe you wept, questioning why I referred to
you as my universe when you harbored dead stars, debris, and an empty void, I simply
replied: “Even a ruined palace can still be called beautiful.”
But as time passed, things began to change.
You would only let me read you if you were sad, so I stayed and listened.
You would cry on my shoulders and tell me about your problems, and when things were okay
you would just leave.
I clung to you tightly, unaware of your loose grip on me, so I started to slip away.
I guess I forgot that you had another reader, you told me about him how he makes your heart
flutter, how he makes you smile, on how he makes you laugh, wish I could read that side of the
story.
Thus, with a heart heavy with melancholy, I departed from you.
I acquainted myself with you gradually, I was patient with your pages, yet I was the one who had
a bookmark stuck into my heart as you unknowingly walked away.