Cold, dry pink air fills our lungs,

forcing unwanted gasps out of our chapped lips.

An ugly, disgusting stillness takes form,
bringing a sense of hatred brought on by months of neglect, of hatred,
self-abuse, of angst.

Singular words of worry, and alarm are dropped upon your romantic,
heavily scented grave,
by the lone birds which encircle it.


Their wings chipping away with age and misery.

Nothing is as it seems. All is old and decayed.

What was the young and thriving rose is now the wilted bloom of death.

Bittersweet feeling attained through acts of desolation.
My eyes stare blindly into your gloomy abyss,
and in return I see unmistakable sorrow,
a pungent impression that it was all your fault,
and I did nothing to stop it, nor encourage it to reign on.
 
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