I had barely began to unravel myself, just as I had scratched the green carapace surfaces, slowly lifting the coloured shells to show the world my nakedness, and I cut her, sliced her deep, and watched the tears stream down her face, past her ripe mango-luscious lips that I will never kiss, felt her hot pain rich as hot rainy night.
And when she spoke, after eons of disappearing herself into the ether: stoic and restrained, forcing a sunniness out of herself that had no part of me in it, that was not mine any more. I have no more pain for you. And with no pain, there is nothing. I have nothing left for you, not even the sweet anger tinged with the remnants, the ashes, of the warmth of days past.
Dark dark thoughts, red red heart, now turned grey grey, all under the clear clear blue blue sky.
Even as I tell myself I am done saying goodbye, that I am done bleeding for her, writhing in a pool of my own regret and guilt, even as I lower my arms, exhausted from waving for her attentions, from beckoning, I cannot help but feel she still has a hold on me: we are tied with gossamer. No. There are now only cobwebs between us: soft, blinding and forbidding. Soft, can be blown away by the weak puffs of dying embers. I can tear them away.
But, let the chasm remain.