She gazed, eyes glazed over into the cocoon of a world she created. Small fish of all colors swam, naive to their imminent suffering. The world was a cruel place, and perhaps it was better for them to remain unaware. Unaware of the cold that grips one’s heart, the longing that grips and tangles until it chokes and causes demise. She tilted her head towards the door, like a statue made of alabastar, broken and laying in remains. She remained in that position for a long time, hoping, waiting, aching.
If only she could see the kind devotion that lay in shimmering violet irises once more. Brush the soft indigo hair of the one she once cherished, the one she would gladly make a fool of herself, stumbling over what could’ve been alluring words spoken in an attempt to become a bard and sing her ballads, her never capturing her beauty. A stunning, flushed face that she’d never touch, cheeks that she’d never caress— never breathe in once more.
She slowly rose, broken. She had succeeded herself in doing what many had longed for. She had brought her own demise upon herself, and yet, she regretted it none.
Perhaps, one could have mercy to spare her a moment to touch her love once more.
She’d never realized how elegant lilies truly were, until she finished her descent.
the seams unravel, a small fragment
because I long for what I have lost
-
(If these are the throes of passion, I’d rather have lived as a soulless man— blind, unknowing— for the rest of my days.)
set me free