"Take a sip," she offers, and down the memory lane I go, through the milky spiral taking form in my teacup, letting the warmth fill my mouth as the liquid slips down my throat. It fills my lungs with the same radiation, without the sensation of drowning, of course.
With every mouthful I float deeper and deeper, passing pink candies and foul-tasting penicillins buried in jams that never concealed the bitterness enough. Linked with them is my childhood bursting with the luscious forests, friendly mountains and lonely walks in pitch-blackness on my way to the dawn of another repeated cycle.
Then I arrive at the gates leading to the end of the beginning, or perhaps the beginning of the beginning, bordering with my endless appetite that drives my very being, and had I been a different person, I would have told you that she exists there, playfully taunting me as yet another object is placed into the world she is in. However, as much as the world would want, she only existed close to my heart and never in it.
The last sip is either the sweetest or the cruelest one, even more so if you are not the being to have prepared the tea.
YOU ARE READING
A few sentiments
PoetryEverything is in shambles, but that's just how it is with nonsense writings. It contains (very) short stories, poetry, and just words in general that are strung together and might or might not hold some meaning. Basically anything my sleep deprived...
