You’re somewhere far away, cornered in the very corner of a room. Stranded against a wall. The paint chipping off as memories start to fade. The drink does what it does when it enters your veins, the inside of your brain. Rotting away setting fire to what we build. Our sand castle falling to the ground in one swift motion as your hands grip her hips. Moving, from side to side. Moving, everything’s moving too fast, how are you holding on? Or did you let go, was that long ago?

Because you were the epitome of beauty, the definition of catastrophe. An unexpected flow of events that hit me in the head, a tail twisted to its very core. So much so that it looses all meaning, therefore becoming a meaningless verse of fourteen lines on a page. Us. A paragraph, an essay, a form of literature epicaly written. A shame no one dared to read. Not to the ending anyways.

The ending, did we even bother to write one? Or did we just leave it upon fate to decide the crashing of our spaceship, not a landing, never a landing. Because when two forces so strong as us come together, they are bound to burst. To blow up, just drop the bomb already. Heave the heavy matter that lays upon your chest into my bare hands, watch me carry it the way home. And then when I look back, I expect you to do the unexpected.



3 thoughts on “Literature

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