𝐀 𝐏𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐌 𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐄 , nas.

⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ prologue.

the depths of the void inside of him he struggled harshly to conceal had become unsheltered and uncovered once again by time and taunting emotions he put off and redirected on
a daily basis. he would not survive as long as he had if he acknowledged them earlier or dealt with the cold truth.

damn, it had been a year already ? time passed but he never truly felt himself healing , or getting over it. he was barren inside.
he was numb and not even the many tears he shed could water the fields of lilac , marigolds , and sunflowers she left planted inside of him when he did get to spend time with her .

gradually they wilted. a flame could not thrive without oxygen feeding its heat. his inner flame disassembled into a wisp of dense black smoke in the pit of his stomach and sat there in its entirety. the feeling inside of him would never leave.

he never addressed the trauma of grief, he just wrote things as they happened and put it in a song. a psalm. a series of poetry in dedication to everything he recalled about her.

his personal eulogy to her. the story was told in the manuscript of a book and in the ink on his skin. . but nothing remotely summarized it. nothing captured her essence enough nor the pain.

it felt like it happened yesterday.
it shouldn't have happened at all.
it didn't make sense. it never would.

he had gone a whole entire year of his life without her ?
it didn't feel like his reality. as if he could wake up and carry on like she never left him and he never loved her. but he had. he loved her more than he could've ever loved another
person in his twenty-two years of living.

he hated the way life permitted him to physically go on and continue to breathe like he was deserving of it but left him emotionally and psychologically stagnant. what had he done to god to deserve so much dismay ?

he despised the way life stole her from him and
left him all alone in a world full of people who's
souls were nothing like hers. who's fervor could not come
close in any fashion to hers. she could not be mimicked.

he had no concept of how he could go on and enjoy the success of making it when the person who believed in his lines before the world ever heard them was gone. whether it was the lyrics to a rap song or the draft of a novel he had been working on she heard him and believed in his craft before he ever heard and believed himself. . and now all of that was obsolete. null.

invalidated by the permanent clutch of death. the thing he craved the most. the be all end all remedy for his continuous suffering.

' this here . . is dedicated to all the men out there and to all their lady friends. to everybody that has lost somebody that was very special to them. check this out. this is about my fucking illmatic angel. her name was sanaé and a year ago today she was stolen from me. i'ma do this song for the last time ever. . .
we call this record a ghetto fairytale ! '

and like a movie , he drifted into a sea of memories with every word he said. memories both good and bad. every one counting and being recounted so vividly that he could feel the warmth in her smile as she stood right front of him on the stage where he was.

he could see her big chocolate brown eyes blinking and her untamed black curls shaking and moving as she grooved
along to the music in a supersonic trance. it was intoxifying.

he could smell her sweet honey and vanilla perfume.
he could feel the velvety pink surface of her full lips on his.
he could hear her sonnet and her prose. it sounded a lot
like the sade adu vinyl record she often times played on repeat.

the kiss of life. she was hues of indigo and jazz music on a rainy sunday afternoon. he didn't even fucking like jazz music or the rain but he fucking loved her and how sedating enough she was to be compared to the two of those intricate though very simple things.

she was breathing art from the museum of his memories,
every detail of her was weaved from the web of his dreams.

once again he could feel her dainty hands connected with his
rough blistered and scarred ones. her fingers were bony but smooth. he could hear her laugh. t'was the only sound he
never got tired of hearing.

she was right there with him again. she had to be.
but she wasn't. she was another whistle in the wind.
dissolved into the freezing air and dark of night ,
she was trapped by death. the purest calypso
in his antagonizing odyssey.

and like always the warmth he felt was no more.
it was cold again. chillier than his favorite november day
he spent with her. or his life before she came along.

the heavy lines of his heavy mind fueling the sinister
inferno inside of him. his gloom evoking deviants telling him it was time to finally soothe the longevity of his ailing.
and truly, it was time. cause what was being a star if the person you wanted to shine with was gone ?

he was no longer living. simply wallowing in an existence that lost all of its meaning. it was time he took credulous hold of his pain and release it. all of it, and all of himself too. it was time for his emancipation. his torture would be no more.

his loss would be no more. he wanted forgiveness and reunion that time was tardy to offer. frustration and distress drove him to an aggressive reclamation of his peace.

it was time to empirically release
the weight of an intolerable world.

it was the peaceful and fearless release he so desperately sought out and nothing but nothing could change his mind about it. he seethed for the right moment but that never seemed to come. he departed with his earthly ways and was ready for nirvana of a tragic kind.

the arms of death were open and
he was set to ascend towards them.
anything that would bring
him closer to her perniciously.

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