Plagued with dictionaries of mixed emotions and the very core of the epitome of restlessness, facts of existence knife into my bubble that although love is all-beautiful and perfect, the change of love itself is unreversibly stabbing. It accompanies hereth, until the clocks shut down as you know it.

Love. I love you. One day, someday, today, it became a matter of having loved. It's not good enough, because if you have ever loved, you would have always made that a reason to never walk out. And you left. You left and you left, till the numbers ceased to discover their point in numerics. You made that a priority of a former, and you always made an effort to create options. I was not only an option, I was always worth the latter of the choices.

I have loved, and I loved you the most. I loved the boy with the beautiful conscience. As for now, I believe I have been in love with a ghost for a long time.