I had missed too many sunsets hurting in silence. To this day, the sky is in a graying shade of blue. To this day, it is mournful and decaying over me — or inside me, I do not know. I had lost count of the months I shunned the sunsets and headed straight — disgracefully, to the arms of the dusk. Besides, falling apart looked harsher, and messier, and more vivid in the light. And so I had missed too many sunsets; this too, is becoming a wound. I wish I were kinder to myself. I wish I could forgive myself.