Illapse

I remember the hundreds of wreaths of flowers, flowers that were in full bloom signifying the love that had just collapsed.

I was fixated on the beauty and softness of each petal in an attempt to avert the numbness that was forthcoming from the grief associated with those flowers, laid bare in profound elegance, much like the beloved I once loved that became still, motionless, and breathless. 

I stood on the edge of that chasm but never fully allowed myself to grieve as I'm not intimately aquaintained with the rustic sounds of grief & sympathy, even as my lips kissed the feeling of his frigid face.

In that moment, I felt the realisation obliterate my heart as I replayed the scenes of where we used to go, and what we used to do, once brimming with life, until it all felt tangible to grasp.

In the stillness of retired hours, elapsed in those moments as I find traces of you all over me, yet the revelation of parting ways reduces me to vulnerability while I immerse myself in the aura that surrounds me, the aura of death and sorrow.

Trying to find the good in the bad knowing that the bad was as bad as it could ever get.

While flanked with indescribable pain, and still, those austere snippets flicker before me, keeping me from resting within the peace that oft comes with slumber.

You fell away from me like Autumnal leaves in the midst of tending as the green pastures became jaded hues of ethereal notions, and a portion of me died in that moment, entranced in those final moments when we shared kind words and a gentle touch that meant so much, and you always knew how to comfort me to deliver me from disharmony, those tiny decebals become ornate over time.

I was the architect of your happiness, and you were the engineer of my cognisance, and I can't help but wonder why you were cheating on me with the casualties of your past until you could no longer draw breath, even though we were ripening by the legacy we each left for one another on a daily basis, and what more can I say, aside from nothing as it wouldn't be right to ask, how could you ?

My dreams lie packed away in a box underneath the bed, waiting for elysium to materialise as my heart and soul remains ajar in the warmth of the embers that emerge through nostalgic triggers, and this is what becomes of shattered daydreams when secrets are no longer secret.

We allow truths to promulgate fact from fiction, and when love dies, we mourn deeply as we watch it slip away abruptly while it deconstructs us until we're an empyt shell, awaiting hope in silence.