the air smells like Harry styles song season
there’s no certain reason, there is no exact explanation
perhaps, august automatically sets a nostalgia
nostalgia of moving on
nostalgia of leaving
I already left, we already left
nonetheless, why does it still feels like its an illness
an illness of reminiscing the almost
we almost??
Is there really an almost between us?
am i really still at the dining table?
It aches that a medicine cannot even heal it
the ache of an open pages towards the closed chapter
“why won’t you say, what you wanna say”
“this is your call”
“maybe one day you’ll call me and tell me your sorry too”
but you did
and it feels i am used to aches
aches of you, aches because of you
shesshy 