obdormio:

He is the man who puts his right sock followed by his right shoe and his left sock then his left shoe. He is the man who tries to take his coffee completely black but couldn’t take the taste so he secretly puts a dash of sugar. He is the man who tapes the string of his teabag onto the side of his mug because it always seem to fall and drown as if committing suicide, as if having had enough of his presence. He is a man of few words but makes most of it through subtle actions. He hums almost every second of everyday: In his sleep, when he wakes up, when he showers, when he dresses, when he eats breakfast, when he arrives at work, when he gets home. Except when he is sad. His fingers will seem to have a life of their own, and they will move to their own accord, in the air, as if playing a melancholy piece on a nonexistent piano. His shoulders hunches as the storm of emotions weights down the invisible piano bench and engulfs him to a place where nothing changes, where nothing flees, where nothing is ephemeral. And she stayed. A place where he will only compose lilt and lullabies full of the sweetest words and promises, where, after it is finished, he will softly croon it to her, only for her, and maybe for the immortal moon. A place to grow old, wither, and reminisce. If only she had stayed.