to the ruin of us
from “to the ruin of us”
step four: orientation
from “Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter’s Revenge, Book2”
“Let go, or be dragged,” the wise Roman knows. And even now, stripped bare of flesh and fantasy, I cling still. To a memory, a whisper of the future that once had me spellbound. Love is an echo and a MP4 file now, all traces of the scents of romance long gone, and replaced with the cold emptiness of freedom, a pure and unrestramining cloak of chaos. I suppose I asked for this, divergence from the common, caustic road of human.
Knuckles worn to raw from the endless war, bones blackened by the fires of passion. Ghost Rider minus a fiery chariot.
I am now the wispy counselor to ghosts, called to soliloquy when interest grows, returned to the shadow upon completion of session. Speak truths, scare hearts, and return to the disquiet box from which you rose.
This is what dead friends do. We with history, forced to coexist within a joined purgatory, haunting each other until memory fades, never gravitating closer, trapped in a recessive shade.
I hold onto that life with ghastly might, unable to sever my own extreme bond to you, no matter how sharp I fashion my scalpel.
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