Parched. Endless blackholes. Places where you can't see the light. Gloom, despair, depression, hurt.
Hurt.
So close to crying, it's so intense. Unable to cry, because they're not my own, and there's still a distance. An ache, for the pride or plain sheer stubbornness that stops his tears.
And we say, let it go when one can't cry. And don't cry to those who do cry.
The Lighter Side of Her
Blog
A grey dress with sweet dainty puckered sleeves and a special nook clothes and surrounds dreamy fancies and flights of imagination. Memories from here and there creep in, forming the pen in her head.
When time slows down, she writes.
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