by Gabrielle L. Ricafrente (Blue_Notebook)
It is nigh. Faster now, you borrow form from the mist of memory. Softly you did crush into pigments of a strong bond that turned nasty in a moment’s spurn. What was once quintessential and divine, after being bitten by frost, burst into flames to die buried underneath the ashes of unsaid words. I mean to cover you in jewels of the abyss– so I did. So I did bedizen a singular blankness with a million gems. And you gained face, you earned beauty in my madness. Shrieking at me afterwards because, apparently, who would love to see one’s half-reflected image staring back at her?
On clear nights, walking subdued in heavy ink, I still look upwards. I look up to you. But you’re always looking down. To search for yourself. And I marvel, only marvel, at the brilliant stones I attached to your selfless self. Then I wonder. Who else out there is looking up at you to admire that beauty we built together? Doesn’t matter now. It is nigh. The clouds have distorted you. You are no more than a forged sky. A bedazzled void hiding behind your own prevarications.
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