Nothing is real ’till its gone

Maybe as the leaves began to fall on the freshly manicured lawns and the birds stopped singing, it meant we ceased to exist. Maybe it was because the sun refused to set and the stars refused to fall. Maybe it was because my toes were cold or my head was high up in the clouds. Maybe it was because without the earth and the sun and the grass and the stars we would never have been. Maybe all of this is the only proof of our existence. The only proof that you and I ever existed. Together. Our bones and our love letters will be the only real evidence that we existed. There’s nothing else. No pictures.No dark forbidden spur of the moment memorabilia that entwined our souls together. nothing.

Or maybe we never did exist.  Because if we existed, we would have felt more alive. More whole and unnerved. More shattered and deprived of innocence. Cause come winter, everything dies. Almost nothing grows in winter. Nothing is real until its gone.

Winters here. Smell it.Breathe it.Touch it.Live it. Before its gone, and you’re left with nothing.

Again.

 

Yours truly,

Painted Shadow

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