A Warmth That Kills

I give this gun to thee.

For fear that when my heart skips a beat to the mention of your name.

I shall kneel to it, because memory seeks to haunt my sleep.

A past I hated, loathed. I past I left behind.

Little did I know, that my feelings followed. Stalked me from behind. That whenever I hear the mention of cigarettes and alcohol, it rushes back to bite me.

I laid soothed under ego. Showing that you and I can be friends, the closest of them. For what do the idiots of the scriptures know? The servants of the solemn? The cummerbund of the conservatives?

And we were. Are. Disregarding imminent futures and yore.

I understood your need for different companies. I just didn't understand why I felt so estranged.

But I never brought it up. I started going to back to circles that I always tried to break free from. Not due to abhorrence, but non-suggestibility to monotony.

Of course it never worked. The company of them didn't seek to appease me, except maybe for a few that gave me something better than shelter. The liberty to be myself.

And I appreciated them. But they have their separate lives too.

Up to this point, in prosody and in context of chronological events, I didn't know what I want anymore.

And then a set of sunsets passed, leaving ways to often routine nights.

Cigarettes and alcohol pierced the night.

Aforementioned, I was with the Dutch. In love with her words, and sometimes even her silence. Laughing about nothing because I'm in tethers to her everything.

But I could never tell her that. In fact I've said I love you to wine more times than I've ever done her.

It struck me anxious. 'Twas the coincidental lightning chasing from cloud to cloud in the open Southern sky.

That is until your name was mentioned.

And suddenly I knew.

That the Dark Ages of the desert yonder was misinterpreted.

I left it alone at first, because I thought it'd be safer to continue with white roses.

Truth was I never forgot how I felt around you.

Although the feelings have sort of presumably dissipated - after all I've fought demons and found solace in others for a considerable period of time - I realised how hard it felt to leave you.

And I wish the hue of the flower were still placid. But I don't think it ever was. I've been lying to myself this whole time.

And when you left, without an embrace. I remembered how I missed the whiff of your cardigan, and the way the verdant iris screams tranquility and contradiction into my soul.

Your hug was my supplementary cigarette, a warmth that eats at me, telling stories of false hopes and anecdotes of antipathy.

So I left without getting that.

Could it be possible that you know?

Because I don't know whether the play is still ensuing or not.

But that night, I had an explanation to why I never could say to her what I felt about her.

That night, I realized my feelings to her was nothing in comparison.

Nothing in comparison to how I fell in love with you.

Argh. I'm such a bad person.