Ex

It's as if the morning isn't in a hurry to begin; everything around breathes the same air as the night, only quieter. Between the words remain traces of past conversations, those where love was still a medicine, not a habit. It seems that if I say anything louder than a whisper, the whole fragile world built of "just a little more" and "later" will fall apart. The air smells of smoke and rain, and my thoughts are filled with nostalgia for those moments when it seemed like love would save us. But now it's more like a slight tremor, like that single hailstone that falls onto your palm and melts before you even realise if it hurts. And yet, there is life in this icy tenderness: beautiful, clumsy, stubborn.