Your name wrung between the lines of fresher tender cuts. Brushing a slower finger over dusty pages, disturbing untold stories that was long untouched.
Your name is the tap-tap of hammer nails and the crimson consummator.
The barricading name, of the mesmeric temple of apologies molded by unequivocal agony and anger lying in the bleak moor laced with your remnants.
My mind is left shambled on the floor, shards of memories now leaking as exudate am I being inflamed?
If I were to paint this across the canvas, itβd be red, blue then purple a galaxy with mismatched constellations on a rippled fabric of night skies.
If I were to ink you to paper, tracing you in black youβd diffuse, cry and leak into a pool of red, dripping at the edge of the paper.
You are the cactus pricking with every temptation.
The one engrained in my figmentation wrapped in lessons coloring the pigmentation of my skin with various hues.
You are the open wound with the fabricated scab.
You are the name that rings inside my head, echoing through my memories trembling shakes, tremors through the cronies widening the past a little more within me.