𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒃𝒖𝒗𝒆𝒍

act. iii || scene i

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|| always, anbuvel ||
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"This can't be..."

He shook his head,

Bewildered again by another actuality

He is yet to dread for its revelation.
Three boxes of heavy honesty,

He glared at it, sitting atop his belongings.

Like she had been,

Like she would still have been one of his.

The burning onus, aching and gnawing at his conviction

And, much worse, the fault entrenched in his heart that caused

Earthquakes of penitence and darkness,

Eventually breaking apart into a partition of worlds.

She stood alone amongst the multitude of everything exultant,

While waiting for the one she truly was to call her true happiness.
Hoping that this night could bring light like that of day,

Wanting something real and ardently,

Yearning for a hand to hold.

Or so she thought,

“This was in my room,”
The second box was given.

Small world as it is,
He was in the same small space of anonymity as they were,

Knotted to the riddles of her secrets,

Like a puzzle with the last piece missing –

She was always an enigma,

Yet both of them knew each other’s complexities.

Whether it be just by a certain way of looking at each other,

Or a decided and delicate touch of even just a hand.

They were mutual not with feelings, but only with conveniency.

But now, he waited
and wished only of her.

Instead, a knock on the window,
“I’ve got another one,”
A third box was imparted.

And as the night did not bring her to them,

at least,
they had something from her.