We drafted behind the Nostradamus like canyon of wind, drafting and riding the lightning promised, to us, to our sensibilities, and to the loving arms, which strength defined and held us tight.
She rendered our senses, incoherent.
She rendered our pre-concepts, bumbling and tumbling down the rabbit hole, 10 miles down.
No rope to assist. No bunny friendly fingers to cling to.
The fancy decadence, of pejorative reckoning – in words clung to terms to phrases – nightly depicting the vastness of the Oceanic tummult which divided the chance love we could have shared.
You threw it away.
I let you throw it away.
Maybe, just, maybe – it wasn’t meant to be built that way.
The one red brick you gave me for the base of that skyscraper design – was never sealed. The imbalance in tragedy, baked-in and infinite.
No. It wasn’t meant to be. You and I.
I’ll never cry, but only in my bleeding soul.