One too many deaths like this one.

No, it’s not the workings of my imagination tricking me. There’s the past and the rose-colored threads that I pull from a tapestry of ****** reds. I know it wasn’t that good to begin with.

What do I miss, I ask myself as I play with the delicacy of a past death between my fingers. The moments of bliss were so little, the pain so great.

Would I come back, I ask myself again as the last piece of art that would know these hands burns in its absence. No, I wouldn’t.

I close my eyes, I’ve never really understood my masochistic mind. I step on the edge of a longing for a heart that never existed; one that cared, one that stayed, one that held me when the world turned into a despicable place.

For a moment I feel her hands around my neck, a caress that made me experience Heaven and Hell. Our moments play, they become a noose around my neck; and I jump.

Here I go again.