|| Noun ||

The mixtape still lies on my bedside table

Untouched since the last festive filled occasion

When we danced among a sea of other dancing couples

When there was less care about what the future may hold

And more about what’s here in our arms which we can touch

After all we hold dear the implicit i love yous

Run our minds like headless chickens on crack

Such broken songs that play through the dawn

Yet still we hoard them and refuse to throw them away

That voice echoing, filling up those empty spaces at 3 past midnight

Praying that playing them over and over again

Can somehow make up for those i miss yous I’ll never say

Hoping that dust covered mixtape although broken,

Can bring me back to the room with dancing feets and careless hand holding dates

Like we knew there are always days for us to intertwine fingers;

Always days for us to give mixtapes when they break;

Always days for us to listen to those songs we love;

Always days for us to spend yet another day in bliss

– a.h.


When you collect things that once made you smile; till the day you realise you’re just a hoarder who can’t seem to let go of those that have already moved on. 

” I have a million things to talk to you about. All I want in this world is you. I want to see you and talk. I want the two of us to begin everything from the beginning. ” – Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami


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