wuthering anatomy lay bare to an inquiring eye
morose, i have a sympathetic chord
unstable, barely perceptible fissure,
lost in sullen waters.
conduct me, in silence, through many dark and intricate passages in my progress.
somber, ebon blackness.
a tattered atmosphere of sorrow
pervaded all
cadaverous and pallid
unusual moral energy, not easily forgotten.
silken incoherence reminisces from a hollow self.
a family evil, a nervous affection
tortured by the grim phantasm, FEAR.
mental condition conveyed in terms too shadowy here to be restated
a bitterness which i can never forget
a settled apathy
a gradual wasting away of the person
alleviated the melancholy, as if in a dream.
the recesses of spirit
poured fourth upon all objects of the universe.

If a disappointment is defined as the act of failing to fulfill the expectations or wishes,
then I'm sorry, my dear,
for you are its antonym,
*while I, its synonym

You loved countdowns, because they always led to something great.

I thought nothing of them, but humoured you nonetheless.

On New Year's celebrations, we'd marvel at fireworks.

The explosions started to lose their spark.

Your words decreased, my pain ascended.

Each year, we grew apart.

The day finally came.

"This is it.

The end.

Goodbye."

Could you forgive me?
Could you refuse me-
If I came to you?
Or could you lie some more,
Next to me.
Now that it's over,
can I come in?
Replace the glass, change the bulbs
but don't touch the floor.