And so it was, on a lonely and cold afternoon, that I realized: you are gone. I knew, of course, that this day would come eventually, but why so soon? We made so many plans, thought so much, loved so much and... this? This happened? I wanted at least 30, maybe 40 more years with you, but I only had 6. And that destroys me, shatters me, breaks me into tiny pieces — pieces that turn into dust, carried away by the wind.

It’s been about three months now, and, once again, I sleep late and wake up even later, always feeling drained and heavy. I stumble over my own feet, unable to go to the gym, to eat, to sleep, or even to drink water. All I feel is the weight of my dark circles and the tears welling up again. And this smell… your smell still lingers on the walls, filling my nose and this entire house, from the couch to the bathroom. It’s impossible not to remember how much you loved that perfume, always applying it more times than you needed...

How many times, how many times have I dreamed of you just this damn month? Long conversations that always draw a laugh from me. And you’re always... dazzling. But I can’t take this anymore; I don’t want to wake up and spend minutes staring at the ceiling or this damn lamp. I wish I could be aware in those dreams, wish I could hold you for hours, days, weeks and... cry in your arms while clinging to you, telling you how much I miss you. But... I don’t have control over these painfully vivid dreams. Honestly, I wish I could slip into a coma in one of those dreams. That way, I could see you for just a little longer.

Gnossiennes [open.spotify.com] your poison [open.spotify.com] ( my playlists /ᐠ｡‸｡ᐟ\ )

It's been a long time.

Tears fall as if my eyes were broken faucets, forming salty puddles on my desk, soaking my keyboard, my mouse, my sketchbook—drowning everything in this unbearable melancholy. Scorching tears that burn my eyes, make my heart pound with longing, and force my mind to remember what it had long tried to forget—you. Your face appears in every day, every night, every dream. Your scent lingers in the air, haunting every moment I try to rest. Your voice? It never leaves. Not for a second. Every word echoes inside me, just as your gentle hands still run through my hair, even in your absence.

How many times—how many times have I dreamt of you this month alone? We talk for hours in those dreams, and you always make me laugh. And, as always… you're dazzling. But I don't want this anymore. I don't want to wake up and spend endless minutes staring at the ceiling, lost in the cruel silence, or at the damn lamp that barely lights up anything, not even the void inside me. I wish I had control in these dreams, I wish I could hold you, embrace you for hours, for days, for weeks—bury my face in your chest and sob, whispering over and over how much I miss you. But I can't. I'm just a spectator, condemned to wake up every time just before I can hold on to you.

Honestly, I wish I could fall into a coma inside one of those dreams. At least then, I could see you for a little longer.

And then the tears come. Sweet or salty, hot, chaotic. They spill from my eyes, slide down my face, and fall—onto my keyboard, my notebook, my trembling hands, anywhere and everywhere. Each drop seems to take a part of me with it, as if I’m slowly being drained, becoming someone worse, someone increasingly unbearable. I wonder how much of myself is even left.

My heart wanders aimlessly, lost from itself and from everything it once called home. It carries only the echo of shattered memories and the burden of an absence that never ceases. This opera is reaching its end.

There is a silent scream buried deep in this abyss, endless and hopeless. Nothing remains but pain and these relentless thoughts.

And yet, despite it all, I would rather drown in this weight alone than let it spill onto someone who doesn’t deserve it.