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“I will be waiting for you at the end of every blind alley, under the lonely streetlamps of a city that will no longer be ours. When the wind grows colder and the huge piles of settled leaves sit there for a week or two, unshielded from the curious gaze of passersby, I will be waiting for you. I will be waiting for what could have been and for what will never be; For the letters that never arrived, the letters that were never sent, and the letters that will never be written.” — Malak El Halabi
I will be waiting for you at the end of every blind alley, under the lonely streetlamps of a city that will no longer be ours.
When the wind grows colder and the huge piles of settled leaves sit there for a week or two, unshielded from the curious gaze of passersby, I will be waiting for you.
I will be waiting for what could have been and for what will never be;
For the letters that never arrived, the letters that were never sent, and the letters that will never be written.