" Cvt is the branch that might have grown jvll straight. Bvrned is Apollo's lavrel bovgh. __ "
[...] if you mess with my death, it will be your last breath [...]
Friend—A word I have not truly grasped. Nor the letters that made up their names. They come and go like the London rain, washed down the drain. Who becomes one and the other not. I don't know them anymore nor them of myself. It flows back into the ocean and gets lost in the clouds. Then one fine day you get drenched walking home from the party and blame it on the weather for giving you a cold. Now, who was not prepared?
Bruno saw Jasmine on her supposed 9th birthday. She returned, only in memory. Bleeding wrist, broken hearts that will never be mended. His grief never understood as the man who raped and murdered his daughter laid undead in the basement of the rented cottage in the woods. The dead deer floating in the lake as Bruno was drowning in his sorrows echoed his helplessness and the lost of hope. Nothing is left as the sky fell. Bottles of beer one after the other, as he paralyzed the murderer of his child—a scalpel on one hand and the photograph of his dead daughter on the body he worked on as a testament of vengeance and regret. An eye for an eye—does that ever work? What if's that should have never been asked. Blames pushed to every corner of the empty house. Darkness that covers eternity and only death unproven as a relief. I'd lost 3 men I never really knew and 1 other too much—still kicking. They said you never lose what you never had, but I'd you and you kept in a corner of my heart, you never knew. The curse is not not being loved but not knowing you'd been loved likewise. The pain is the broken heart untold and kept within the 4 walls of solitary. The silent quicken beats of a loners' heart and the echos of the tires against the wet roads as it vanished into a passerby's rambling over the phone and footsteps of a hurried soul. The striped red couch and the yellow jumper over a hungry one—an unspoken slight torture for the unspoken truth. Fear, a word understated. I could have told you but I haven't could. Until; perhaps my final breath, I shallowed my desire—I never lived. What is the point of memories, they'd passed. Your tears, your touch and your mistaken smile. Your nail on my skin and the tickle on my neck, your closeness thousands of miles too far away, your daylight my night. Your breath down my neck, , the pleasure's all mine. Those guys on their way and mine? when unfold/ The stench of the cigarette smoke and the misplaced letters, I wondered your morning after the granted. "These arms of mine, they are longing for you"
When I stopped wondering about death—it found its way back by slipping itself through the broken window and took away someone I know yet not at all, but sure had been nice. What is then, not being around; not breathing and not dreaming. Living in someone else's memory is not exactly an absolute existence is it? The memories, they expire and are non-transferable afterall. What's left ultimately perhaps is nothing but some numbers and alphabets on paper or on stone. This person—us—will be gone. Gone where? I am alive, for now but have yet to find the courage to be.