by R.T. Allenson
He writes the words but they are untrue, they do not reveal what he really feels. It is thinly veiled with secrets and with wishes that would be too hard to come true.
He pauses for a moment, fingers twitching as he finds the words that would allow him to speak his mind and that would allow them to understand. There are many things adrift within the sanctity of his soul, but one thought lingers – the inevitable ‘what if’, that slow feeling of anticipation of what could go wrong.
“Memories wound deep.” , he says to himself. He revels in the sense of loss and of guilt when he remembers; it is the only way he knows to generate a feeling to wash away the numbness but this too brings too evil tidings to himself and he slowly descends into a spiraling sadness that he can’t escape from. The words in his mind and on the edge of his fingertips are like seething poison; there’s grievance there and sorrow, but far from it is the pain of wanting.
Time moves forwards slowly within his bubble of pureness, away from the harshness of the world. The darkness within him moves ever closer to the surface and only his love for the one is able to suppress it. Knowing this, he lets himself sink into the abyss of sleep – perhaps there he can find some solace for the meantime…