"Time heals all wounds," said my grandmother. Share all . Mostly I belächele the set - an ironic smile, a sincere smile, a grateful smile, a cold smile that forces the rest of the conversation in the knee, a rope around the neck binding on him and then so long and so strong it takes until a deafening to hear a gentle sigh of death.
But the time it passes. She gives herself a shit for broken hearts to dreams and fears, hopes and beliefs, about passing bleeding arms, but they do. And the habit occurs one day, until only one occasional tangles in the neck reminded that everything is still as it once was and that not even decades are anything to change that.
passes the time - and even then they went, sometimes as soon as a single breath, sometimes so painfully slow as honey.
The Lion and I are still in the sea of denial, half-saved rarely on the boat of happiness. The Queen in a tent of shelter under the starry sky, between psychiatric stays and the towers of security, which were the arms of the fox. My mother with her face to the sun. My father underground.
time passed. The scar remained at the same table with the Sorg. Not Invited guests at a wedding without a bride and groom.
"I sometimes do not know if I still love you," said the lion.
I nodded. Shrugged his shoulders. "Okay."
" Okay," he repeated. It echoed in his, my, our home again and again. And again. "Sorry." Did not.
"Never mind." Indeed, there really is not.
We were sitting in the same position. He had an arm around my shoulder, my head on his chest. We did not look at. He kissed my forehead, my mouth, my neck.
It was night and dark and the second hand of the clock was ticking loudly on the television in my heart. Time passed and the wounds were only bigger.
But the time it passes. She gives herself a shit for broken hearts to dreams and fears, hopes and beliefs, about passing bleeding arms, but they do. And the habit occurs one day, until only one occasional tangles in the neck reminded that everything is still as it once was and that not even decades are anything to change that.
passes the time - and even then they went, sometimes as soon as a single breath, sometimes so painfully slow as honey.
The Lion and I are still in the sea of denial, half-saved rarely on the boat of happiness. The Queen in a tent of shelter under the starry sky, between psychiatric stays and the towers of security, which were the arms of the fox. My mother with her face to the sun. My father underground.
time passed. The scar remained at the same table with the Sorg. Not Invited guests at a wedding without a bride and groom.
"I sometimes do not know if I still love you," said the lion.
I nodded. Shrugged his shoulders. "Okay."
" Okay," he repeated. It echoed in his, my, our home again and again. And again. "Sorry." Did not.
"Never mind." Indeed, there really is not.
We were sitting in the same position. He had an arm around my shoulder, my head on his chest. We did not look at. He kissed my forehead, my mouth, my neck.
It was night and dark and the second hand of the clock was ticking loudly on the television in my heart. Time passed and the wounds were only bigger.
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