Promises that were never made;
are meant to hurt more.
They leave no right to question;
no feelings to explore.
When I look in the mirror;
a statue stares at my soul.
At least you don’t have to move on;
at least you were adored.
Isn’t it always harder;
for the one left at an open door?
They can choose to neither enter,
nor leave on their own.
Their hearts like a pendulum;
Swinging, pausing, swinging, worn out to the core.
A flutter in your existence;
a tornado to their soul.
And promises that were never made,
are more cruel to the soul.
They make you care, they make you notice;
their nonchalance harder to ignore.
Emptiness swallowing emptiness;
swirling like a black hole.
An existence that becomes so hollow, a shell with no soul;
A shell that keeps suffocating, condensing, till it exists no more.