amoristicscritto

When it rains, it pours, but what I get are hurricanes. From the pellets of raindrops that shot from the sky, to your pitiful eyes that seemed too vulnerable. Knitting our voice prints that blackened the city. Collecting the fragments of our broken memories. Despairing entrapping us behind our cynical smiles. Yet, assaulting us with the wrath of realism. Beyond the hoplelessness of our forbidden love, there's something here, that, perchance, is all we wanted.