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Repost from Retrograde Dissociation
You have created a life out of the blue. You have made up an entirety of existence just based upon what used to be you and her.
Now in the fragments of a world you once adored, you sit composing words utterly beautiful yet laden with a palpable sadness. Sadness is the soul of your words though you keep saying that sadness isn't and will never be her color.
I wonder, as I roam through that handy work of your hands, your world of rue, the kind of person you were to her.
Were you attentive, were you loving? Was she a fantasy to you, one to mirror yourself yet stand so perfectly unlike the way you view yourself or was she a human?
All I had left in me to give was a piece of my skin. If the parchment where the love in my heart eternally flowed like a stream that'd proven itself from the heavens wasn't enough for you to hear me, I could've given you more.
But I needed audience from you... And that you denied. A chattering flock of birds could've grabbed your attention better than my attempts for you to hear me.
Wasn't I loud? I suppose a life coming apart as it missed its heartbeat wasn't loud enough. I suppose the light in someone's eyes dimming by the second as it missed the spark that was you didn't really scream "help", did it?
I had put breadcrumbs at your feet to come follow me, find me, into the woods just the place you loved, I wore crimson robes and crimson on my lips so you couldn't possibly miss me... Unless you did so on purpose and followed the dark trails into the heart of the swamp.
What was it all for? What did these words achieve what are they standing for? How do they still exist and what life is there in them?
A monument to the one woman theatre, cause every word in here is merely a play... A play you didn't attend.
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