Fuck, the further I search for an escape from the hold, (your hold) the further I fall from my pleasant grace -away from those memories I have so secretly stored inside my anchored chest. Like an envelope of rain, unfolding creases of your writing on every interior page. Their color shone like speckles on every baked good you created, and all the ones I never ate. A feeling never embraced, a hate so full of hate, and though, not directly aimed at the person who is, dangled like draping beads upon the shoulders of your skin -touch, and taste, and everything in between. I have tired from ignoring the iron barred cage of our years. We were lions. And we're lions again. Shamelessly pacing our prey. Another lover, another soul to consume. I sicken from these inescapable thoughts of you. Housed a traitor, (the you) inside your room. I'm sure he asked every question, an inquiry for every feature, bland and unbreakable. (((You firefly, feathered boat without oars.)))
Those unresponsive messages carried the weight of an elasticity like blended eggs. And now you're leaving. And now I'm preventing myself from caring with the help of memory, and the help of maturation, although developing you like a photograph into ink onto a page with a pen in my hand signifies a far cry from what a gentleman is capable of accomplishing. I could have written a thousand different things right now, but instead I chose to search so desperately for a way to rid you of my thoughts. By turning you into only those electrocutions of synapse responses -reactionary timing: a ricochet-, and all history. We are no longer a society of social comfort, two tongues and legs twisted over blue carpet. Remember the fireplace you could never light? It will forever remain in the past next to all of the good and the bad, and the saddest remainder is that you'll only remember the worst of me. You always have.
