alr so this is just a small scribble and uh pls lemme know if y'all would like an extended version or smth.

also, pls, its very confusing and all. even i dont know what fever dream i was on to write it.

hope yall like it or smth????

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"we dont have time left," you said when the war began.

"we have all the time in the world, left to us," you said when i hugged you somberly, your heart clenched within my embrace, and you took breathes which i believed took you to eternity you always wrote about.

because this wasn't a war of love, time and sacrifices.

this was a war of people, blood and bodies.

people roared in here, someone cried in here, in the same spot in some unknown lane between these hollow streets, where one sobs the death of one who didn't even know death existed to it.

because here people died, divine or daft, everyone drifted into a sleep of something so soft i could touch it in your hair, the way it curled in my hands, so soft it was felt by me when i first pressed our chests together and coated my blood upon my shirt, for i didnt fight the battle, but you always had my blood stained upon you.

people withered away, from eyes and from emotions, it felt as if they were just a painting you had painted but forgot to actuall draw and now that spot in your heart is so hollow it aches for even a mark of pencil, even a splash of dry colour, its so hollow i cant help but feed it the paint which has dried, sitting still in a glass bottle of mine.

people always said there wasnt time, always running, always furthering themselves away from the one they love, so they wished, hoped, that their blood would not smear itself on the same clothes they loved more endearingly, more than their own blood-stained hands, how they didnt want the same sinned crimson to dwell on the same heart, paint the same spot they wish they could've painted with the sand they run on. they're always looking at their sand clock, because they dont have time, always running, and when they looked back, the sand had already melted, and now the glass seemed hollow, too, but not like their heart, for it carried something, and their heart felt as if it was only meant to grieve for the nothingness it felt all the time.