The pages of a book, fluttering in the breeze. Something feels wrong. Something out of place. I’ve been so ill. Ever since she left me, there’s been nothing at all. Faces come and go, but they reek of poverty. Poverty of the soul. Too much cheapness. Too many shadows. Haunted by mistakes, by passing feelings. Cigarette smoke, dancing before my eyes. Love lies bleeding. It weighs heavy, like some kind of balloon. I’m not strong, I’m weak like the rest of them. Urges reign over morality. In the land of stifled belief, flesh is king. Bones, always hollow. Hands around her neck, but that was yesterday. Things from my past, ghosts of what once was. This place, this secret room of mine. Victims, aren’t we all.
Screams of an animal. The animal, screams. Streets where I once knew who I was. Autumn, then winter. Snow, and the embrace of a lover stood beneath that looming bridge. Footsteps, placed like a signature. A mark of our love, only temporary, but captured by her camera. Sometimes, I don’t know who I am anymore. These days escape, like the leaves that peel off an old sycamore tree. Growing old. Dumb by design. Flowers, pressed between these tainted pages. The words once had meaning. Scars on her arms, healed but forever running deep. Like a river, twisting through the mountains. This torrid landscape, inwards and without. Virtue. Damned virtue. The pleasures of all the lowly people, mocking like the crippled mess I am. The grass was greener. The smiles were true. Unwritten diaries. That can never breathe.
She grinned at me in a crowded place. Those devilish eyes. So sordid was her lulling heart. The sex of her youth, tingling with delight. Upon that stairwell, we crossed with shy desire. Oh, sweet desire. So honest, so cute. Parting her fringe that covered a face so pure, I raised her chin with my fingers and placed a kiss upon her lips. In that moment, we sealed our fate. And I couldn’t help but smile so stupidly. Despite everything, all I can ever do is hold my head up to the sky and be thankful that I’m alive. The angels know, and so do the demons. It makes the fight worthwhile. It makes all the lows seem worth it somehow. And fuck, do the lows pile up so high. They touch the clouds, and they never come down. It’s how it goes. These layers of incubation, growing like the hairs in my tangled beard. So natural, like the trees that sing through the realms of my obscurity.