You.

I don't know what it is that I see in you.

Neither do I know how that this came to be.

These logistics demand that the evergreen status of my mind request the answer to it.

But as for me, I've decided.
I'll stop fighting.

I'll let these waves caress my skin.

I'll indulge myself in these feelings.

Maybe one day I'll wake up and realise it was but an illusion.

A dream.

An inception born from a desire to connect.

But then again.

From my desire, there was surrender.
From my gradual surrender, power.

I love you.

The eighth in a long line of failures,

Luring all he could use to build his empire of rust.

Lusting after impossible trajectories,

Trachea wheezing in sorrow,

Rowing down the empire of rust.

The first flame slowly flickers out.


No other source of illumination burns.


You gather kindling, desperate to find some sense of security.


The security light brings.


Ash begins to gather on your face.


Forming your very visage, only frozen in place.

The mask of undeniable terror.

All rise, and he's still sitting down.


Arms outstretched, fingers clasped.


They move to the rhythm ingrained.

Sipping on the glass, he waits.


Any of this, he passes up.

Still awaiting for the tattered dress to sweep in the door.

"Until you became the air in my lungs, the symphony between our steps,
The echoes of your voice in my ears,
The soft embrace of night over day.
You have become, second nature."

"Before, I was one. Now I am less than one, but so much more with you."

Recognising the signs of attachment in him,

Jim bought out his handy dandy notebook.

Noting down the signs, taking inspiration from it but shaking on his feet, the feelings were too intense.

Pretense was, he wouldn't get involved at all. That he'd walk away unscathed, that he'd be able to laugh about it while bragging about the good times.


Time and again, he had been shown.
There was no laughing about this.

The girl who printed my heart out on paper, you have my heart.


Your eyes kept scouring for me, yet I remained deliberate aloof : I was tugging on your strings just as hard as your eyes bore holes in my back.


But hey, the black noise covering us was all we needed to look at each other.


That was the closest I've ever come feeling like me : feeling like the boy who once cherished moments like that.


And oh boy, she wants me dead.

Asked if we could become friends, but after the flurry that happened in front of her eyes, answer was no.

No.
No.


Chuckle


It's all a game to me.
Even though she slips away from my fingers, I live for the moment.