i hope you are happy. in the east.
i hope you are happy. in june.
i saw you the other day, walking down the street, tall and proud. as if you owned it. you walked fast as always. no short girl in high heels by your side to slow you down. i couldn't see your hands, they were bundled tight into your jacket pockets, but i knew you were wearing your fingerless striped gloves. hat on your head to keep your ears warm, and a muffler casually tied around your neck, as if the cold were just a part of your plan. indifferent to it, yet it circled around you as if you ushered it in yourself. as if it would just stop being cold after you walked by.
it seemed like a postcard in black-and-white. handsome man walking down a picturesque street in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, nonchalant, happy with just being. happy for the cobblestones under his feet. and the world around you was glowing back, as if it came into existence only after you looked at it.
only one thing was amiss. but you didn't seem to notice so it didn't really matter. a big splatter of red in the black-and-white frame. my heart torn to pieces, violated beyond measure, bleeding profusely, scratched and broken, barely breathing, exhausted from the violence, yet never really giving in to the shame of being broken by you.
the red splatter was a small inconsequential part of the entire photograph. something no one would even notice at first glance. something you didn't notice either. and as you walked by, the cobblestones bled red behind you, and nobody really cared.
no matter how much one may hate the sun, it still rises every morning. and no matter how many houses you occupy, you will never have a home.
this is the curse of fire.
i hope you are happy. in june.
i saw you the other day, walking down the street, tall and proud. as if you owned it. you walked fast as always. no short girl in high heels by your side to slow you down. i couldn't see your hands, they were bundled tight into your jacket pockets, but i knew you were wearing your fingerless striped gloves. hat on your head to keep your ears warm, and a muffler casually tied around your neck, as if the cold were just a part of your plan. indifferent to it, yet it circled around you as if you ushered it in yourself. as if it would just stop being cold after you walked by.
it seemed like a postcard in black-and-white. handsome man walking down a picturesque street in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, nonchalant, happy with just being. happy for the cobblestones under his feet. and the world around you was glowing back, as if it came into existence only after you looked at it.
only one thing was amiss. but you didn't seem to notice so it didn't really matter. a big splatter of red in the black-and-white frame. my heart torn to pieces, violated beyond measure, bleeding profusely, scratched and broken, barely breathing, exhausted from the violence, yet never really giving in to the shame of being broken by you.
the red splatter was a small inconsequential part of the entire photograph. something no one would even notice at first glance. something you didn't notice either. and as you walked by, the cobblestones bled red behind you, and nobody really cared.
no matter how much one may hate the sun, it still rises every morning. and no matter how many houses you occupy, you will never have a home.
this is the curse of fire.