I wonder… What kind of love is this? Giving. Going. Grieving. Unable to touch the glassy surface of truth – only the dust of yesterdays. Always yesterdays. Never tomorrows – that is something to grieve about.
A black box. Itching in my fingers to cut it open. The sounds it makes when shaken, like the rattling of a snakes tail. Bare little bones clinking together. A small dead animal buried in my head.
What kind of love is this? What kind of us? Mysteries are ought to be solved- aren’t they? But this enigma is poised. And I am the one, who cuts herself? – Accidentally. Let me believe it, at least. For a while.
A mystery is destined to be solved… Or sold. Either way. Never letting go. Never satisfied. Never. Trusting.
What kind of love is this?