Our anxiety doesn't come from thinking about the future, but from wanting to control it.
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We danced in the quiet, no music, just breath,You held me so close, now there's nothing left.
Your shadow still lingers on old wooden floors,
But your footsteps don’t echo here anymore.
I’m barefoot in a memory, still reaching for you,
On tiptoes of hoping for something untrue.
The warmth of your silence, the ghost of your touch—
It’s cruel how the soft things can hurt just as much.
I spin in the stillness, where love used to be,
Not lost in the moment— the moment lost me.
The torn pages of us
You were the fire, I was the flame,
We danced through the dark
just whispering names.
But time turned to embers,
and silence to dust,
Now all that remains are
the torn pages of us.
The roses we kept
have withered in shade,
Like words we once meant
but never quite said.
Love doesn’t echo
the way that it must,
When hearts turn to paper,
and promises rust.
So read me in ashes,
remember the rhyme,
We were a chapter
that ran out of time.
No ink left to write,
no need to discuss—
We’re ghosts in a story...
the torn pages of us.
You were the fire, I was the flame,
We danced through the dark
just whispering names.
But time turned to embers,
and silence to dust,
Now all that remains are
the torn pages of us.
The roses we kept
have withered in shade,
Like words we once meant
but never quite said.
Love doesn’t echo
the way that it must,
When hearts turn to paper,
and promises rust.
So read me in ashes,
remember the rhyme,
We were a chapter
that ran out of time.
No ink left to write,
no need to discuss—
We’re ghosts in a story...
the torn pages of us.
