Murder She wrote
You don't need space, and neither do you need time.
You need love.
To break free.
To listen.
And to accept.
But to have love, you need to have time.
To have love, you need space.
A recreative zeal: in the hollow of your stomach.
People do not matter, and neither does the atmosphere that breezes around you.
It's just the story of you in you and you.
I listen.
And I'm accepting.
But not enough.
Not enough.
Time is what I don't have. space is what I need.
Time + (-Space) = unaccomplished love story.
Strange how my thinking of love has also become rational.
But deep.
Deep enough to drown.
Smeared on his window, was once my heart.
Written on his shirt, the smoothness of his voice had captured my soul.
Twisted around in his kisses, clunging on his shoulders for support, my knees weak, had once been my trust.
And yet my giving was not enough.
Love - luster.
Lacking.
Forgotten.
And all I have is a messed up mind, contradictory feelings: but not a broken heart.
Because remember i have an unaccomplished love story?
I haven't given everything yet: I haven't committed for long yet.
Thoughts might be compelling, and time must be waiting.
But I need more space.
A world of my own.
Murder she wrote.
<3
