Flowerbed and honey

This is not a love story, it is the end of it A very strange thing about us is the tangibility of infinity in our hearts. It protects us and heals us with its swords and weaponry. I have to admit on the meekness of unseen auras nature and beyond chipped in me, but have surely promised to live at least up to their sour anklets ( in a way of escaping). My reality suffers and rejoices both in wonder and perseverance through witnessing the circle of life, age, and death to ups and downs. And of course, I wish to travel with flowers and sweet hues to our home hand in hand. Another day for losing, another time for crying. I swear it was so real and captivating of the way you were in me, around me. I choked on its presence and sweat from the betrayal. But how really lost is someone if she believes she is not. If the other little voice is telling her day and night of what she is, how can she ever decide alone? What am I if I am not yours? Who should I be now that you left? What is this hole ri...