Lost

At the end of the day, I just want to believe that I know I am not fine, but one day, it will get better. There will be this ball of happiness, rolling down towards me, and I will hold it. I will hold onto it but not forever—because they seem short—and I want to tell myself, some nights are just hauntingly beautiful. 

 

A year, or decade from now, if our roads intersect, I don’t want you to walk alone, but with me. And tell me about the part of journey I missed. Because I want to tell you, too. I want you to look at me not with despair, or with a sad smile, but with the same old smile you used to have when you were around me. Because, every time I look at you, I start believing in beautiful things. That this world is filled with beauty and butterflies and sandstorms and dead flowers and people like you, happy; and people like me, lost. 

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