03 July

neither of us know what goes on in the heart of the other. that's the basic plot of a tragic love story.

all they live on is the uncertainty spurred on by half-answered questions and 'what ifs', and 'perhaps in some odd space in the universe she does feel the same way when she catches me staring at her like the world doesn't exist, but i'll never know'.

and she'll leave windows wide open every early morning hoping Noah's dove will land on her open palm with a twig in its beak that was grown especially for her in the garden of his mind; where thoughts of her roam and sprout without the hindrence from unspoken insecurities and fears. but its through that same window that she feels the coldness she felt the night he was too hesitant to hold her closely enough for her to feel the warmth, that's meant for her alone, lodged in his chest. the love between them spurs on angels to cry in envy but this is the tragedy: that neither of them are brave enough to say 'i love you' loud enough for the other to hear. though they sit so close they're kept apart by the things unsaid, because even when the space between them can barely breathe its existence, words unspoken will be the downfall of an otherwise beautiful love story.

neither of them know what buds in the mind of the other. and that's the tragic ending of a beautiful love story.