An epitaph of a lonely zombie

If this is the last time I write, let it be the words you carve on my epitaph; the song you sing at my funeral, if this is the last time I write.
If this is the last time I write, before I let our voices turn into graveyards, let it be with the slightest of struggles.
And this is how it ends, the caring, the love; slowly forgetting the alphabets. How we stop asking each other questions about longing, how we don’t hold each other the way our hands had shaped into. This is how we forget.
Eventually, every river dries up. How in the horizon of your lips and the breaking of your kisses, we are afraid to speak beyond the words we know. Cause therein lies the truth.
If this is the last time I write, let it be an epiphany for the times our hands almost touched the words lost inside our chest.
And this is how we let go, of caring, of love. How we turn into winters with no end. How we turn into lovers in the ruins of remorse. How we turn into lovers who have forgotten, how to love.

@thesteemcurator01 @steemalive @bellenguarr @cryptokannon