To all the stories that never find its ending:
This is getting old.
The cheering, the wooing, the teasing. Yet our feet reluctantly tip-toeing away.
This is getting banal.
The late night talking, the sands below our feet and the sounds of waves crashing each other.
I wish the wave you want to sew your eyes on is the wave of my body.
This is getting cliche.
The smile that sends my heart marching down to the beat of your drums.
Yet you can not seems to hear the thunderous wind inside this crippled heart.
perhaps we are just one tick away from our own version of eternity. Perhaps we are just one shy away from rolling into each others arms under a warm blanket on a rainy day like today. Perhaps.
Though we choose to once again sail away. leaving the waves, the thunders, and the wilderness, untouched, unexplored. and one day, perhaps, forgotten.