Soothing cold breeze, fallen crispy leaves, and soft sunshine through the curtains, I ruminate about my fragmented existence and how things could've been for us. Living with some eerie ghostly presence, spine-tingling feelings from the clanging of the rusty chain that still hangs,
and your moderately unpopular sentiment is all I grasp on to. At night, as I meet my epiphany, I realize I am contagious. Neither I nor you can embrace; it's a fait accompli. I fear it close by, but I desire it far away. Just another night, I bade someone Adieu, and the next day at
8th Avenue, some millennial stranger crossed by me, and I got Déjà vu. I've been a bystander all along.
Smell of chewing tobacco, collapsed can of pop, and a bouquet of Pomponella in the trash can. Your sunken eyes were sham let alone our dalliance. You're not alone, but I will be radical and free if I walk out of that door. You don't have to say anything; it's raining outside, and it's raining
in this room. Just before you spit out all that bane from the mouth and how you hated my stagnant thoughts in disdain, it smelled like cherry lip gloss infused with raw coffee. But I found solace within those words. How your ideology of self-destruction made me babble about God's parable like
an insular, and it sounded like an untuned radio.
Later, some evening, the horologist on the next block surmised that we're overdue. That's when I buried my ticker in Venice and became comatose.
