#prose

This romance can only be found in movies, songs, poems, short stories:

In fiction. In surf trips. In marijuana highs.

“I've never found endless love in people,” she says, “one way or another, everyone leaves, to a point of no return. Feelings, such fragile things, always die.”

Remember the boy who kissed you just before the semestral break, the one you've been holding on to for eight years? He just said about a week ago:

“If my girlfriend asks when was the last time we talked, please say sometime 2016.”

You remember the time when you both drank beer on the couch and shortly after, had sex for the first time. 2017. You declared that he was your one great love some two years ago.

And now you feel as if he's already gone in your life; he's disappeared as swiftly as the coming of a new fuck buddy that you just met over the weekend.

Coming home to an empty apartment, you cheerfully say, “I'm home!” (Perhaps to the ash tray and the mess of worn, but still clean, clothes on the couch.)

LOVE — what a motherfuckery for a monosyllabic word.

Bee Gee's More Than A Woman plays.

We can take forever, just a minute at a time.

This post was originally published in Literary Limerence by Mia Alcantara. http://lit-lim.ml

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I looked at them as if I was gazing through a window frame. One sat on a stone bench and looked up at the other, who stood about two feet away. I knew them by names. Even so, I chose to remain hidden in the figures of strangers while smoking my cigarette. I saw them everyday at work, and yet today – they felt so far away.

The distance between me and them was a thick expanse of space that could not be traveled by foot. In it was a dark aura, a damp haze, a mixture of purple and amber swirls that twisted around your arms and legs when you unluckily passed them.

The window to the dark space was right in front of me — I could see it. It made me want to crawl inside my shell and retreat. Toxic gas was everywhere. It made me feel nothing — the menthol of my cigarette was a mere dream. In my chest was a dark hole of apathy and bleak atmosphere.

“That time of the cycle has come again,” I thought to myself.

#prose