Any words, if they were ever said, no longer carried any meaning. If a phrase was enough to bring her back, I'd have said it countless times over, until it every syllable wore upon my lips, but without a purpose, there'd be no sense to such a thing. And so the song perseveres without a letter to it.

Along the many things senseless, unspoken and lost between us, there was the fact that I loved her. This love forgotten remained locked in a drawer, suffering the action of time as it dispersed into dust. Among notes and scores, among symphonies written and abandoned just there, my love remained. The words I've never said confined with the melodies she'd never hear. Melodies for her, about her. Arrangements that composed her, that described and idealized her. Parts of a past I insisted to revisit each night, no matter how painful.

The home we shared is now empty, locked, but all paths still seem to lead there, irrevocably bringing my feet back to the beginning. In the pointless start of it all, my footsteps still echo, a cadance to a symphony of abandon.

I thought about running away, thought, but what is the meaning of running when life is here? The days I spent alongside her, still stashed in my memory, happened here, in this godforsaken place. Where could I run to when she was everywhere, in everything that surrounded me?

There is no escape, no silence short of sufocation. As simple as that, the harmony soars, ordered in chaos. I would have to keep moving forward, looking upwards, mindlessly ahead, or else I'd fall apart. Time won't allow me to stop, nor can I possibly rewind it back to when there was still happiness here. So even if it is as an unparalleled torment, I knew not to stray a single step from her bedside.

And that is how I came to face my mistake every week, bringing her flowers and keepsakes, praying she'll one day wake up to write the lyrics to the hymn, to the pulse that keeps my heart beating.


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