Maybe the poster was never meant to be taken down, even if none of the people is here on earth anymore.

Maybe the touches, the praises, the promises were reserved in bottles, the ones that were made and sealed in the same material so that unless you smashed it, theirs will be their.

And maybe the whispers at the end of that match was not at all a careless demeanour. In fact, it was soundlessly said in a way that only that one person and the utterer alone can hear, can know and can never forget.

Maybe the talk turned into a confession, but not until blood had been dripped and feelings had been hurt.

Maybe the yearning has always been there, absentmindedly hidden behind so many conflicts, but never once was wrinkled.

Maybe the night in Amsterdam will be less empty when you have someone riding stolen bikes with across the city, heading straight to the windmill and into the woods.

Maybe at 4 a.m, a knock on the door will wake you, too soon to be guarded so you fall hard, fall fast and fall painfully.

Maybe at the first swing of a clenching hand against the face to a blue hoodie and tight jeans covered body, the guts started to scream. Maybe it's the only way to make the man realize he has scrambled things up so bad he has hurt the one who was desperately in love with him.

Maybe they never got to the kebab stand as the other went back to his own place, took off the sweet blue hoodie that had been turning brownish purple from dried blood, and took a nap with his face up because his nose was aching, and his heart didn't stop vomiting all over the place. And maybe hours later, a familiar knock on the door would not wake him, but gently put him back to sleep with a stinging reminder of being fooled.

And maybe, the sleeping man will wake up forgiving because love is stupid and beautiful. But he never comes back the same.

______________________

Bubbles, because he's a "fragile little bitch".