Withering Blossoms

We had a house near the highway. It shook under our bed as the lonely people drove away. We lived on our breaths, our blossoms and the rain. We told stories to our ground, sang to the walls as they were built and planted lilies on the front yard.

We were a one way street that led to another; one was a game player _a champion when it comes to lifting hopes_ and the other, a sleeping star that fell for too many nights and woken up on different grounds. One had charming eyes that could grab the sun, and the other had ones that you'd follow in the dark. One believed in reason and the other believed in God. But whenever we were alone, we would hold each others hands like a parachute's handle. Nothing held fire other than a candle. We would take no sides or collide; we would only fill a room with our smiles.

If only memories weren't like a long road that parts from a railway. If only looking back was like looking out a car's window. Some days still show me there's more to moonlight than the sun. Never for once to remind me that we were never one.

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