In the Aftermath.

The night's as still as the placid surface of a lake just begging me to skip a stone across it, with its shimmery waters like that of tears welled up in pitiful eyes. I love this silence, this exclusive silence of the night.

Been repressing an undying desire to shoot you the question lately. Instead, I eventually end up attempting to reach out to you in a casual, benign approach, just not to blow things up or to raise your suspicion. You never seem to reciprocate, though. Never.

I can't decide if this is my sensitivity driving my mind wild or if this is actually happening.

Anytime anybody pulls you down

Anytime anybody says you're not allowed

Just remember you are not alone

In the aftermath

You told me I wasn't alone, but how do you explain this emptiness that fills me?