The rooms still smell of Jasmine,
of papers and books shattered all over.
The quite smell of rot keeps trying to overwhelm the constant waves from the riven bottles of perfume and spices.
"i much prefer the awful unexpected smell then the hiraeth scent of what used to be here"
Every step i take i hear
a crack,
a creak
and a crunch.
if i could i would have tried to save every bit of it,
of the fragments that cover as far as eye can see.
but only a fool can suggest such a thing in vain...
Shall i let my heart crumble far into dust then what it already is?
For i know the stroke of every letter,the smell of all utensils,the covers of every book and in what order.
For i would grive far into despair if even one letter were missing;
So how could i handle lost libraries and its Author?
The candles have mixed into the floor,
the carpets and curtains are painted with colours to turn your stomach.
" if only i was here.i should have been the one..."
Because now....
I cant smell the arabian jasmines anymore,
only the smell of rust
*Riven(past participle of verb rive )
violently split, torn apart, or fractured.
*Hiraeth (unique Welsh term)
a deep, bittersweet sense of longing, nostalgia, or homesickness for a place, time, or person that has been lost or perhaps never existed
I don't even know what style of writing this is but the later stories would be more structured.
This is a small pov of a man who discovered the aftermath of his wifes brutal murder at their home whice left the whole thing in a mess.
ŞİMDİ OKUDUĞUN
Randomish stories
Genel KurguA collection of short stories of every genre From a doctor of the 1900s travelling the seas to a college student trying to survive maneging both his studies,work and hereafter To a badass futuristic sci-fi heiress fighting against HER OWN FATHERS...
