ily,
ily, ily stories
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stadarooni
stadarooni Empathy is the human superpower.
Autoplay OFF   •   a month ago
Lost syllables, lost love letters, swept away into a coma of endless time.

ily,

Two acronyms brush away the bleached parchment in a scrawl of calligraphy,

Two acronyms brush away the bleached parchment in a scrawl of calligraphy, a choreography that curls a thousand daydreams into swirling tomorrows.

What happens when the paper withers, when petals of poesy slump into dust and midnight?

What happens when the paper withers, when petals of poesy slump into dust and midnight? Do the letters outlive the worn memories of inked hearts and yesterdays?

"i" becomes a colourless column of clouds,

"i" becomes a colourless column of clouds, a stem reaching its inky fingertips to the anchored sun–

"i" becomes a colourless column of clouds, a stem reaching its inky fingertips to the anchored sun– yet, gravity plucks its dance into the shadow of eclipsed promises,

not meant to break open heaven.

"l" stuttered lullabies stampeded, shredded into the underbelly of crossed-out dreams–

"l" stuttered lullabies stampeded, shredded into the underbelly of crossed-out dreams– now, a fleeting fragment of its lyrics is a strand of shrinking stardust,

strummed to forgotten colours and summers.

"y" is a broken crossroad between a trickling trail of tears and the afterglow of glee–

"y" is a broken crossroad between a trickling trail of tears and the afterglow of glee– destined to glide beyond the creases of the page into kisses

until the ink sketches its static silhouette in silence.

As the letters linger like wine-stains stuck to a dwindling window of time,

As the letters linger like wine-stains stuck to a dwindling window of time, the comma curls to the tiptoes of y in breaths that blur,

As the letters linger like wine-stains stuck to a dwindling window of time, the comma curls to the tiptoes of y in breaths that blur, yet it's dulled like a puddle hollowed by hopes

As the letters linger like wine-stains stuck to a dwindling window of time, the comma curls to the tiptoes of y in breaths that blur, yet it's dulled like a puddle hollowed by hopes –meant to cutoff, not cradle.

A space sweeps past this pause, poured from the page’s waning face into

A space sweeps past this pause, poured from the page’s waning face into the crevices between smudged syllables,

A space sweeps past this pause, poured from the page’s waning face into the crevices between smudged syllables, the comma that preludes letters in the shape of lovelorn longings–

and the second acronym is splotched endlessly

and the second acronym is splotched endlessly by a suffocated tempo of faded tears,

and the second acronym is splotched endlessly by a suffocated tempo of faded tears, a story adrift and swallowed into the night,

neverending.

(Aside) Hey, all, long time no see! I have been writing this piece over the past several days and it's a bit of a longer one and it felt very different to write, too!

This piece is about a worn-out piece of paper and about the acronym, the comma after it, and the space after that, as it is in the title. The second acronym is worn out and lost with the paper, though. It's a piece about the title, too, basically. :)

I think Taylor Swift and Billie Eilish songs inspired some of this piece, as did a silly conversation with a friend that was nothing like the contents of what I wrote. :) Also, thank you to the great friends of mine that gave suggestions and feedback while I wrote -- it means the world to me! <3

Take care, Commaful, and keep writing! You are all awesome and have a million and one (times a million and one) things to say! :D <3

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