Love feels like the flustra of waves,
Curling, fingers dragged on skin,
Tumbling.
The rainstorm that doesn't strike
Like a cyclone to the rocky headlands.
But a soft, pitter-patter,
Constant, gentle reminder.
The sound of blood pulsating through
Veins.
Alive, alive, alive.
Keratinised skin, so
Awfully diseased that,
Though sewn with
Glossy membranes,
Will transmute into
The texture of dewy morning grass
And the scent of petrichor.
As if love were the cure.
Wafting, through hollow logs,
Hollow words, phrases strung long and wide,
Until heartstrings snap.
And fibres bleed,
And features warp,
Mutate.
Acid eats away at this,
Awful, awful feeling.
The nature of this,
Fleeting, temporary thing.
Beautiful because it only
Pulses once in the lifetime
Of the universe.
That is the nature of love
And life
And loss.
So equally terrifying,
Tragic,
And temporary.
YOU ARE READING
Stagnant
General Fiction[ collection of things that never really fit, short stories, poems, whatevers ] Things that could be so much more, and yet churned to a stop.
