The motion . . . the contact . . . the surface . . . the resistance . . . the grounded feeling of being broken.
There was an electric current,
flowed through my vein.
There was a fiery rose scent,
my nerves seemed in pain.
As if I was paralyzed
or electrified
by the touch of your hand;
when you gaze at me,
there was a connection bond
as if we were in a synthesizing trap.
I flinched,
I flinched in the vision of this attraction.
Maybe this is distraction,
but when your round brown eyes
circled into mine,
then looked away,
I thought you have always wanted me—
I flinched,
I flinched in our lovely little interaction
because this might be . . .
the start.
Or just so I thought
because this might be the end,
I flinched at the thought.
Who would want a start to be the end?
Who would want an electromagnetic force to be only just friction?
I did not want,
I was sure it would not turn that way.
Because there was resurrection of our hearts,
there was a strong connection.
You promised,
I promised.
We were fond of each other,
tender voices,
soft kisses of our remains.
The quiet air stirred,
in the dull breath
I heard,
you whispered,
"Sorry."
Today,
the ashes of Wednesday,
turned your desire into us,
moving closer to each other.
I noticed a trapezoid . . .
so I looked away from you for a little while . . .
when the shape faded,
I spun again to you.
I flinched at the alternate shock,
suddenly—
in the lamplight,
you burned into ruins of ember.
There was an ache inside—
no,
not just an ache . . .
a very large spine.
I saw it with my naked eye:
You,
slowly falling.
The whole world stopped,
time did not move.
My arm broke,
arms broke;
broken bone,
broken bones.
This was never the start,
but an end
of our twisted love.
I will always love you . . .
