The beauty here is the kind to haunt you in your sleep, when you�re far away and forgotten.
And I�ll miss it like those perfect quiet afternoons when you can look out of your window and see the magic of a cold, English winter.
There is beauty everywhere, but none means so much as what�s right outside your window.
There�s so much to say I�ve forgotten how to say it. So much to say that�s already been said, which I don�t like as I feel like going around in circles, living the same life repeatedly.
Yet differently, oh so differently.
I never know what I want.
Or at least, find the balance between what I want and what I can have.
I feel like hiding my head in the sand. When the time finally comes around to face your fears, you don�t want to see them, for fear of what they really are.
And where it may lead.
I�ll miss you like those perfect afternoons, I�m not sure if anything will ever be the same.
