Sandra

the joy of walking by myself, of feeling alone in a city of so many

the singular pleasure of watching people you love fall in love with other people you love

I can’t live a petty life because it wouldn’t match the absoluteness of death

a foolish lust for something resembling passion

the consequence of someone else’s destiny

the truth vs still want to be in love

no one warned me that I would live

life as a lie worthy of our death

a cemetery of sensations

passionless memories from a previous life

the abstract life of a personal memory

so familiar that it felt ending

a graceful eagerness

clinging to samsara with a vengeance

a love with a morbid heart

I will not say, 𝘐𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘟 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭? Such demands are murderous to beauty

All those trees, a century inside them.

The gentle intimacy of vice.

The way we touch things once we’ve grown used to them.

My love, not even memory remains.