Three Into None
I should have know, but for some reason your future is shrouded from me. Now, you’re like everyone else. But it was never true, I was never like anyone else. I merely had one of my senses robbed from me, stumbling blindly through the dark to touch you again.
I turned into you like daffodils into the sun. My fingers sung like choirs across your skin, and your pleasant shapes and movement were like water to a man parched close to death. Like counting knuckles in a playground game, I counted you. One mississippi, two mississippi, three…
I think back to my first lover’s premonition, where she saw me older and still alone. For all my supposed self-observed greatness, a hollowness that cannot be undone persistent as I slip further and further into old age. I want it not to be true. I try to fight it. I risk and I gamble on only one thing because of the loneliness that haunts my steps.
Things are as they should be: the old love burns true and tries to find a way, and the villain sits alone once more. Admire it though you might, you don’t actually want a knife. For all its gleaming edge and smooth skin, its reflecting radience and precision, I remain
a knife
Perfect.
And alone.
As it should be.
Written On: Home Computer