Fictional
in a world they named.
Encased in characters and letters, they are eternal. In a place where feelings echo and words are mute, where touches are loud and glances are silent. Eternally entwined between destiny and illusion; they hold each other. She is talking about the constitution of stars; dreams and hopes and souls and secrets. But he doesn't believe her. Just hot planets and burning rocks and dead objects. Yet, she still smiles, turning to him and insisting they should share a secret with the galaxies. And so, she confines in him the true essence of a star and that is illusions.
“Just like our love.”
She reached for the sky and grabbed a handful of wishes and love and lies. Trapped in a paradox neither could ever fathom breaking away from, she promises him myths and he assures her fables. They're both content with their facade, a fabrication of vision and desires. They are nothing, yet it feels like everything. The emptiness of their love is enough. For, even if they'd bask under lies and false pretenses, the cavity in their ghost ribcage is full. Her lips would part and her eyes would shine. She rather venture into oblivion and hold her breath until he tells her it's okay. Their phantom love was more than enough.
But after endless nights and eternal days, they've run out of words.
She stares at the horizon, counting breaths and drowning tears. “Will you stay?” He gives her a wordless touch, both hands ablaze with distance and stars and dreams and hopes. Their existence is slipping and the pages are missing, every heave smothered by the weight of reality's silent promise. She'd ask him again and again, but he wouldn't answer. There are no more characters and no more letters, the alphabet unable to articulate love and betrayal. So she lets go.
“You won't.”
Atoms crumble and matter dissolves, love dissipates and facades blur. Her heart is shattered, while his is blank. She doesn't turn to look at him, doesn't move to look at herself. It's falling apart. So she closes the windows to her soul and lets go. His hand is gone and her skin is cold. They've run out of characters and spaces. She can build castles over clouds, she can dry oceans and burn planets. She can create a million possibilities, yet they all crumble under the weight of reality's fatality.
Her lips would never taste his, her hands would never hold his and her words would never cross his.
They never existed.
“Just like our love.”
She reached for the sky and grabbed a handful of wishes and love and lies. Trapped in a paradox neither could ever fathom breaking away from, she promises him myths and he assures her fables. They're both content with their facade, a fabrication of vision and desires. They are nothing, yet it feels like everything. The emptiness of their love is enough. For, even if they'd bask under lies and false pretenses, the cavity in their ghost ribcage is full. Her lips would part and her eyes would shine. She rather venture into oblivion and hold her breath until he tells her it's okay. Their phantom love was more than enough.
But after endless nights and eternal days, they've run out of words.
She stares at the horizon, counting breaths and drowning tears. “Will you stay?” He gives her a wordless touch, both hands ablaze with distance and stars and dreams and hopes. Their existence is slipping and the pages are missing, every heave smothered by the weight of reality's silent promise. She'd ask him again and again, but he wouldn't answer. There are no more characters and no more letters, the alphabet unable to articulate love and betrayal. So she lets go.
“You won't.”
Atoms crumble and matter dissolves, love dissipates and facades blur. Her heart is shattered, while his is blank. She doesn't turn to look at him, doesn't move to look at herself. It's falling apart. So she closes the windows to her soul and lets go. His hand is gone and her skin is cold. They've run out of characters and spaces. She can build castles over clouds, she can dry oceans and burn planets. She can create a million possibilities, yet they all crumble under the weight of reality's fatality.
Her lips would never taste his, her hands would never hold his and her words would never cross his.
They never existed.