The Rain On Monday

Written words are the only thing my mind can find ease in.


107. Again

Winter: I failed to save you from yourself on that cold December day

that is only remembered as tragic.

Spring: I was left to drown in the happy and sad memories of your warm

smile and vacant eyes.

Summer: I faked smiles and wore too much makeup in the wrong places

to try to conceal the burning rage that became me.

Autumn: The leaves crumbled under my feet and somewhere among the noise

I heard your voice again.

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