The foundation the pedestal sat on was rocked that night, and through her fog that fills her brain she's yet to decide if that's good or bad.
It's not that he became someone she didn't know --
more that the expectations were there at all --
but again judgement is reserved.
Her hands held assault delicately --
similar to his --
His words landed with loud thuds as they marked the skin.
A lawn mower in a garden.
But who's who?
A bomb with the wrong wire cut.
All the work up of emotions to make the blades meet in the middle
just to have it explode anyway --
and it's odd because even if the smoke never clears they'll still stand in their ruins.
One's kerosene, one's gasoline.
YOU ARE READING
Self-reflections, confessions, studied subjects, and soul spilling words that sit on the page, but hope to reach out and coil around those that chance a peek at them. If you like what you see, please leave some feedback and let me know. If you have...