Tragic hands wrap ‘round my throat. In those empty dreams of love and scheme, I once wrote...
But then I get nervous, and cling to shadows. Time isn’t real; I feels it’s claws, though. Sitting silent by the long days. I fake my way through innocent things. Maybe if I suffered more, he would sing haikus I could adore. For sometimes I can still feel those notes, as they bleed through his blank eyes. Dark letters of a voided love, in a dialect I no longer recognize...
-HMG