you are nostalgia,

you are oxymorons,

an indifferent feeling almost the same as the love I carry for the moon.

you are the record player in the corner of the room,

vibrating through this empty cocoon - of a box-shaped home.

paintings splatter the walls,

with all too familiar smells of succulents and incense,

I am suffocating.

a feeling I never want,

ceased,

but forevermore.

please do not leave.

because if you do, I will surely fade with every lyric echoing into the black.