___

guess there's no certain way of doing that. just some empty moments when you reach out your fingertips towards each other through the windows of bypassing trains. this elusive touch sparkles with golden sunsets of times long gone and as you pull back your frost biten hand, you see that current sunsets are no longer yours, not belonging to both of you. you see that the linearity is cyclic - daughter becomes her mother, patterns repeat.
but the beauty of my sunset is not lessened... it's different. it's my own. and I guess it's only natural that there is a tint of sadness that I cannot share it with a person that has become someone else.