I feel a little awkward.

I wrote Three poetic prose pieces here, and I decided to post them all now, so if it's a little confusing, that's why, okay? And also, the way I put it in the translator might make it a little different from the original. But I imagine it's good (I'm amazing when I'm at the peak of my depression, just kidding!).

If I asked you to stay, would you? The empty hallways have already forgotten the noise of days gone by. The clock keeps turning, yet it can no longer reach the moments that linger in memory. Perhaps the Eclipse that kept you alive is gone. Would you stay, knowing there is a silence found on a freezing balcony on a summer afternoon? You taught me what love is, but not how to use it; now, perhaps, it is too late. The scars on your heart are everywhere, and I cannot leave the door ajar. I am merely an extra in the story I wrote; perhaps there is no stage for someone who lives through their own oblivion.

My hand reached out for you but did not find you. Perhaps there is nothing left in all of this. Neither the gentlest, deepest touches can bring back a love that has already departed, nor can the most comforting smiles drive away the pain that has already set in. Neither the temperature nor the vastness of the sea, nor the chill of the afternoon—and certainly not the beautiful sunset—could bring back what was lost amidst the sea's somber breeze.

The empty bars no longer need your presence, just as your absence no longer requires an explanation. The flowers you sent me wilted before I even had the chance to water them. And yet, you insist on adding color to that little lily that has already withered. Why do you keep trying to cover up something that cannot be restored? Standing still and watching the clock is still more comforting than being on the sidewalk outside your house.