Heartbroken


Is that even possible to have a strange taste with the same old coffee you always make for yourself every morning. To not to admire the galaxy like you used to before when you still sketch the moon, colored it with black, gray, violet and blue--now you feel blue. Now you do not name the stars, instead you count them trying to decipher how many of them die every night yet no one seem to noticed but the melancholy in your eyes. Well, I think it's not the playlist, it's not the coffee, it's not the galaxy, nor the books you have in your shelves whose strange. It's not the changing colors of clouds, not the sound of random people footsteps. Probably not the night. It's you.

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