The moist nighttime hours, the cloudiest, the muddiest, after my mind is done chasing you. Wither-pale thoughts of you, a blur in the weak morning with impossible questions that are larger, harder than to swallow. Nostalgia touch of blues, irrupting apologies that never caught the path they were meant to go through. Buried deep in a world I don't belong to. Tainted stains of yesterdays; pulsating hidden words and the mess they made. You split me with strokes of a tongue, a genius that fills me. Your gentlness that ran the long distance, exposing my hunches in the waiting. The faintest of ideas eludes me, I shovel all till all blows away, grasping nothing but empty pain. Is it the story or the ending, that I find my salvation in?
I never learn.
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