Speak softly love

A silent and sturdy expression, without smiles but kisses to the forehead.

He is happy, he is one that care not for the day to come but today.


So he does not write more of lingering days of audacity, whimpering towards life’s harshest tragedy.

His minutes are simple, he worries, but not for loneliness.


A star in hand he shoot through vast and empty space. The blaze in his kicks he lunge through motionless peaks. He shrieks through his world of how much he loves her, with every words, every phrases and every sentences, again and again and again until language are as just absurd, enunciated noise.

He screams to them

Yet he spoke to her

Speak softly love, so no one hears us but the sky


It is pride, it is stupidity, that all he does is to desperately show, but not say. His own complication kills the very fabric of their communication, he hates how not even a compassionate innuendo his tounge can craft, he hates how only moments froze inside his head, not romance.

He hates how mute he became when it comes to that word.

Is it not who he is?

Is it wrong to build presence, not words of worries?

Is it ok to not to say?

But whisper a little

Speak softly love, so no one hears us but the sky


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