illusion
sometimes when i look at you, i’m not sure if it’s the butterflies in my stomach that still haven’t quite settled or the anxiety i felt when you walked away
sometimes i wonder, while you’re shouting to others what you had to whisper to me, if it’s because you saw me as fragile like art or because you saw me as just weak.
sometimes i look back on ‘i love you’ and don’t see anything else, other times i see ghosts of pity and reluctance written behind every syllable
yet i’d die to feel those butterflies again, i’d die to have another whispered conversation, i’d die for one more ‘i love you’
because even though nothing was as it seemed, it’s better than nothing at all.













