Eternity on Paper [COMPLETE]

Centralia

Fissures like varicose veins tattoo a long, forgotten road. The cracks emit my worst miasma, the product of a fire burning endlessly beneath, stealing my oxygen until I'm left choking on my very life. On the surface, I am the center, the pillar around which this toxic haze surrounds, smothering my thoughts and caressing my skin.

Black snow falling upon my flesh leaves no mark, I've lost all feeling and the chemicals aren't flowing. Empty, I move to the rhythm of the sun's pulse. Every flare is a cry drowned out behind bloated clouds that won't burst.

The street is littered with markings of a worthless story—etchings of a delusional artist deprived of language or direction. Hollowed out dwellings bear the burden of serving as larger canvasses, presenting the gasps of a mind bathed in twilight.

But my legs carry themselves, magnetized to the end of the road. Every step lengthens the path, keeping me further from my destination: a beautiful shape shrouded in an onyx mist.

My vacant eyes catch glimpses of eternity in her form, but the fog swallows my vision. I try to dream of her, but my melatonin is depleted.

A single wave in my defective brain composes a beautiful song in May, just for her. But as the ink sets, the words bleed. Because she is poetry and I have none.

A flash of our souls together as one revives it all before vanishing beyond the veil once again, and I'm left on my knees, alone in a museum of dereliction.

Always out of reach, she is, existing on a plane outside of reality.

I think I'm dying.