Smoke and Fire.

Looking back now, I see we were every cliche love story ever gone wrong, and yet we weren’t even a love story, not even a story by far. All we ever were, were a few chapters of some cheap sad paperback called life where nothing works out right, where I wore multiple rose tinted glasses one over the other to stay in my dreamy, perfect world. A world in which one perfect rainy day, the universe would give me everything I’d ever wanted, and I’d be oh-so-glad for never giving up every time I looked at you; all the universe did was rip away my rose lens with such ferocity it left me with bleeding eyes and burning pupils, unblinking till I was more numb than my fingers on my favorite winter days, too numb to realize that we were slow dancing in a burning room, and now it’s too late to get out; all that’s left of us is smoke and fire, and a pile of charred bones on the ground, while somewhere, the universe laughs in its malevolence.

I once read somewhere that the dreamers are always the ones left locked up in gray walled rooms, while everyone else gets to ride off into their glorious sunset, and I remember scoffing at that, but here I am, suffocating and choking on my own ashes while you get the perfect world I’d always dreamed of.

And then people ask me why I don’t smile like I used to anymore.



10 thoughts on “Smoke and Fire.”

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