Wooden interactions. Small talk punctuated with work jargon. Where once fire and passion burned, little embers slowly died, snuffed out where once they wanted to spread and grow and burn the world to its foundations.
(more) Now she smiles at you and it's empty. A memory of the way she looked at you as you laid in her bed, waiting expectantly for her to lean over you. Hair of dying maple leaves. Eyes of pools, clear blue. The smell of her plants, verdant and fragrant.
Doomed from the start. Stars crossed to hell and back. We both knew it, and yet we persisted. A weekend spent snowed in. Late night movies gave way to intimate hours spent talking face to face about all of our deepest secrets, our silent regrets. Each moment spent together a small death. Each lingering gaze a small sadness.
Yet we self destructed in the same way. We tore out our own hearts, but she put them both into a box. No holes for air, just suffocating stillness.
Each wooden interaction carves a notch, a weakening of the structure. I'm already broken, termites have taken root. Will I find you again, before the end? (less)