A Friday Night

this is not typed. this is not a love essay. this is not for her. this is not for you. this is for me. this is from Him. or perhaps, worst- from satan.

the feeling is cliche; a smashed and devastated heart now looked very alluring and scrumptious. to be eaten the shitted. the taste is like no other edible and non-edible things that you may find on earth.

time, passes by. memories, stay. love come in and knock the door.opened. yet half and.. closed. and opened. but now, for someone else. not you.

to make it clear. to make it clearer. you are not hated. but you are not loved.

this is not written. this is a spontaneous reaction. from an impassive man. from an aggressive soul. from an unbonding and lonely anatomy-and thus, physiology.

time never heal, for it is not a meds anyway. but a replacement is not a good measure to expell the memories away. the grudge is built not intendedly but ya, this is not grudge. this is either you name it, or you knew it?

the you in the first sentence is not you. the you in the last one, may be. but can you read, between the lines?

cant see?then you blind. or blinded. or my words are blunt??

oo this is a friday night, or it is actually tomorrow?

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