We could have been.

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It seemed like so much. It seemed like all I could want.

We gave each other the grand illusion of futures, of predictions and security. We gave each other our word. Which, is nothing more than a noise escaping the throat. We told each other fairy tales. Of a ‘one day’ and ‘always will be’s.’ We filled our dreams with unfulfilled fortune.

Then we turned off the lights. The stories still remained but the colors seemed to fade. The images still played behind my lids, but I couldn’t hear his voice any longer.

It was the poison we released. A toxin of a ‘what could be’ that crippled the present and our perceptions.

Dreams are a beautiful thing if one dreams alone at night.


JournalEve LemeurComment