Trailing my hand along a sharp edge, I can't decide if it hurts. Its consequence immediate and subtle - and addictive. Except I'm projecting. You are my blade, in the sense that you're so obviously damning yet I find myself drawn to you. I see you with another and feel relief that turns to envy. Envy, not jealousy because you were never mine to begin with. So I'll trail my hand against the sharp edges of the wall as I walk away then return it to my side.
YOU ARE READING
Lachrymose
PoésieLachrymose /ˈlakrɪməʊs,ˈlakrɪməʊz/ adjective tearful or given to weeping. A collection of amateur prose and poetry illustrating the inner turmoil. Mainly a dumping ground for loose thoughts and ideas to be interpreted in whatever manner.
