Tampering with obsession, variegated and obscene, the solace of acceptance confused for rivers bleeding to dry seas. The disease of dark hours cools dreadful longings to silences beyond the fire and glitz that shaped the ecstatic symmetry of shells, abandoned and half-buried in a desert of sand, not coarse or aching but translucent and lonely, like something that has heaved itself beyond the constraints of its walls.
(I miss you, your plain skirts and bows in your hair. I miss your voice and the jubilant agony you imposed upon me. I hope you are happy.)