The imageries, meagre and merely innuendoes, the metaphors, unsure and always falling shy of satiation, the allegories, futile and failing to alleviate;
An alluring ailment, and there seems to be no panacea, the wreathed words of differentia, feeling like a chokehold of absentia, the unfolding silence of forsaking, reeling like blunt swords tired of awakening;
The most elementary of chores, seem haughty and herculean, but when impelled by you, they are utterly epicurean, the colors are bland and wasteful, yet your shadows make them purposeful;
A thought of delayed unison, seculed and fluorishing in our separation, a longing that lingers, that oomph in our breaths, in a nearness just tending to caress, all the rains and yet we are parched, we look like ruins that are magnificently arched!
Muse to mutiny, rumination to ruse, any description feels like an untoward restriction, a zeal for the first bite of a favourite meal, the last thought before a full stop, it's an absurdity full of stale statements, only a concensus that without 'us', I am not quite myself, an unread book, and you are like scattered bookmarks, on an empty bookshelf!