Those letters that I wrote you, the ones that I destroyed before you had the chance to read them; the words are inscribed on the folds of my brain. They’ve been stored away underneath bullet pierced blankets and less than half burnt out candles.
No one paces the floor of that attic anymore. While whispers and moonlight serenades float beneath the door, the keyhole has been filled with memories that prevent everyone, even me, from getting in.
