When I was left alone to witness the conflict with the Romanticist and the Nihilist in me. It initiated sophistically from French Literature or Russian Literature?, Is nature gorgeous or dangerous? to Finding Pessimism hilarious and Optimism alarming and end in “why are you keep walking when there’s no light at the end of the tunnel?” menacingly.
Him. I’ll walk with him, barefoot, torn clothes, holding hands, getting old, going grey, smooching, snuggling, struggling. In freezing cold, blistering heat, on leaf abscission, through blooming daffodils. With awe or anger, calm or confused, pain or relief, crave or disgust, fear or joy. Commiting sins and virtues. Parched, ravenous, drained, fatigued. Till every nerve ruptures, tissue tears, skin peels, bone shatters, blood drains.
As long as it’s with him, I don’t seek to pry or peek. They went silent.
Winter 