Triennial Times

The world had yet to turn. Tilting forward, dropping my entire life from its tepid skies and into the dripping wings of nearby lingering clouds.

There were no angels in this story. No savior. No Gods. Just me, alone with my thoughts.

Thoughts of what could have been, what should have been, and how life is so unfair.

He melted and folded into something that wasn’t real, didn’t exist anymore. At least not in this life, not in this world.

I turned my mind off, letting my cerebral stem pilot my limbs.

My eyes roamed the void planet looking for anything that reminded me of him. A bird, a butterfly, a falling leaf.

I vowed to search the barren lands until we met again. It was, after-all, always in this life or the next. I would repeat myself a thousand times just to have one more second with you.

In death, his silence wasn’t cold. It was loud, magnified by the screaming chaos flooding my veins. Pure bitter encapsulating rage.

His photo still clung to my mirror, the color drained from the print—just as my world had left me here. A cold tired mess.

My feet heavy, anchored to the floor—and yet, somehow, still blessed.