cervo tè

او رنجِ این رویداد را به تنهایی به دوش می‌کشید. اما ساعاتِ پایانی روز، زمانِ هجومِ بی‌دفاعِ خاطرات بود. یک نشانه‌ی ساده کافی بود تا او را به دورانی پرتاب کند که هستی‌اش با تپش‌های یک حسِ ناشناخته معنا پیدا می‌کرد. این تداعی، آرامشِ نیم‌بندِ جانِ خسته‌اش را ویران می‌کرد، اشتیاقِ منجمدشده‌اش دوباره جریان می‌یافت و دردی عمیق در اعماق وجودش ریشه می‌دواند.

he s my man we’re hand in hand to hell and back & i love him like nobody else can he s my man i’ve been damned no nobody has to understand me and my man.

on nights when the lake turns silver beneath the moon i imagine you wandering through the woods like a fairy from an old tale. the stars seem softer around you the wind gentler as if the world itself knows it is in the presence of something rare. and though rivers may wander and seasons may change my heart returns to you the way a swan always returns to its quiet water.

perhaps that is what love truly is not grand promises or distant dreams but the feeling of finding home in someone’s presence. like moonlight upon a still lake like fairy wings hidden among white flowers beautiful not cause they are loud but cause they make the whole world feel a little more magical.

there was a quietude that settled over her days like a heavy velvet shroud & she spoke no more of the passions that once ruled her breast. she walked through the high stone corridors with a step so light it left no echo as though she were a ghost in her own castle. the world kept its turning & the seasons bled one into the other but to her all flowers were now bleached of color & the sun felt no warmer than the moon. it was not a bitter sorrow that held her but rather a vast and hollow stillness a great indifference that smoothed over every sharp edge of her memory until even the face of her old longing became nothing but a blurred portrait in a dark room. she simply watched the shadows lengthen across the floorboards & cared not whether the night would ever bring the dawn.