Absentia

What is this life?

Filled with scattered pieces of our better selves

reflected in every vessel of dreams which hold its empty promises where mirage of happiness weighed us down in a way we could never imagine until I stitched our continents back together with every fibre of my being only to find you deep dived into what I thought was meaningless element to soothe our flesh underneath the summer skies, and you’d learnt and tasted each drop of clear water under my very eyes then disappeared with the wave of what’s found within you before I could even blink or pull a slightest strand of your careful resolution for me to cling on to in my greatest loss and confusion, not knowing how deep the scar was. Then time had proved once again that turning you into an object of understanding between withered chrysants and framed memories of us in the shrine of the aftermath only rephrased some things in life are not meant to be understood, not  even when I learnt that I was unable to bring myself to say I love you the same way as I did before while shunning those pairs of loving eyes in a prison of moments, so I snuck through an aperture to the void within. You might broke me well, but I broke myself better in the shadow of my solitude and time had proved once again that whatever choices we had made rephrased some broken things are not meant to be repaired.

What is this life..?

☆1970

✞2013

Pic: ©Laura Makabresku

— Mapping Satanic Circle And The Origin Of My Evil