A dead leave crumbled in between pages.

A dead leave crumbled in between pages. bruisedmelodies stories

arcane_ “ We write our stories on these walls “
Autoplay OFF   •   2 months ago
'One last thing' about us.

By: a.y.m

A dead leave crumbled in between pages.


I had conclusively behold the vagueness and fragility of life, of how in a spur of moment a soul is no more captivated,of how the heart becomes tired of holding on.

Of how each atom, each cell in the anatomy gave itself up to death. Of how the body in the back of beyond lays at rest. Lifeless. Stiff. In serenity. Covered with all white.

In the cloth, stainless of all regrets and grudges. Buried deep beneath ...

And all of a sudden, our names are plucked from the air.

The bookmark left between novel's pages never to be turned by familiar hands, the dairy without an end flawlessly portrayed, the alarm set up for early morning without waking us up this time,

the calendar left marked for events without us attending, the notebooks in shelves, the pictures on walls, messy room, the clothes in wardrobes folded perfectly, courses incomplete,

classes never to be marked present again, a painting undone, daily medicines to take, the noise, the rush, the routines, our belongings, beloved watches, favorite perfumes, dear pillows,

all of a sudden, left abandoned.

And then there will be "One Last Time" to everything about us. One last time our names called out until it no longer sticks around as years pass by. One last time our clothing smell of us.

One last time our alarms beep until it's set off forever. One last time our touch is felt. One last picture. One last conversation. One last meet up. One last memory. One last goodbye.

And in the dark and silence, as our bodies decay our names fade too. The spaces are filled. The 'our-thing' shared. Our presence and persona long forgotten.

And how tragic we carry along no remembrance as we leave and so does this World holds no essence of ours.

Perhaps, the names we leave on notebooks. The pictures on walls. These words, they embrace the guise of how we were.

And as somewhere someone unknown, after ages leaf through our stories, we breath a little in the whisper of lines swaying rhythmically in wind as if forlorn feather.

A dead leave crumbled in between pages.

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