Thus loneliness encumbers my shoulders and heart again.
It feels like a singular kiss, amongst a hail storm of hellstricken bullets.
Snowflakes in a garden of rust.
An amoeba separated from its kin, unable to split.
21 decided to be divided to 4.
Perhaps my worth as a wordsmith wasn't as great as I thought.
Thus the feeling draws on itself, in a constant art and motion, an Ouroboros Serpent.
Like how I used to stammer and stutter badly as a child, ironing myself out but falling and scraping yet never bruising my eagerness.
Nostalgia and adventure are just means for one to hide in security.
Perhaps one day, one day I'll fall in love again.
Baggy pants, oversized shirts and a lioness, wispy and delicate. But alight with fire, with life all the same.
And the rain fell on me, eliciting no tears, but ripped my pores apart, and whiffs of an old perfume, of ghosts. Playing to the tune of yesterday, I swept across with her. And I let her go, as the dust settled on my tongue and ash filled it, and was gone.
The lady who ran this place, bowed and closed the mausoleum, and I asked, "How much for your services?" And then she said, "You couldn't afford it."
I walked away into a wasteland blooming again. There's no sweet taste of victory here.
Only death's touch remains, all-cleansing and all-equalising.
I pick her up, and she said, "What took you so long?"
I sigh.
"It's nothing."