words that mean nothing.

How many times have I pondered upon this thought, replaying this scene, over and over again. Taunting yet immensely motivating, it fills me up with discomposure. Someone yet to be brought into existence, yet known so well in a way that cannot be understood by even the most grandeur of fools, willing to run away together, forever. Incomplete words, incomplete thoughts, never expected to be finished. But the catch? It is allowed.
As forks and paper plates once were, but no longer are. Things that don't make sense are of the norm, just another comfort to be embraced. Symptoms of hatred seen to be inexact belongings, much like far off galaxies are of to us. As for fear? Just another ink spot left unwanted, twiddling in self despair. Depositing everyone and everything down memory land, leaving it to ruins, letting it become just another blurred mist of the past. Just you and me, me and you. We whisk towards the perfect, golden, sun, which lay upon the pink horizon. Our lives never looked so perfect as we kick up dirt, running atop the winding abandoned path, never looking back. A place where our agony cannot find us.