People aren’t always the way you want them to be. The way you see them be. People shift like the earth’s rotation, crusts of the surface hurtling like loose change in your pockets. Slips through the unmended holes and drips like wine, down the hydrogen-based crimes. Everything becomes chaotic and a whirlwind of pleasure and pain. Sweetness that makes your throat go dry like ice cream on a cold day. Those pennies rest undisturbed on the ground, worn away by time’s wrenching hand. Droplets of emotions soon to be picked up, exploding like confetti in another’s embrace. And they are soon returned to their owner, by the kindness of a stranger. Or they stay stuck to the ground like a bug in a spider’s nest, fixed like glue on obsession’s zest.
Leaves that wince when I brush them away and branches that snap when I push them from my face. Waves under breaking point, divided and gaping like the mouth of a monster too large to know its weakness. And it tickles him in the stomach; pressed against him are the sticks that scratch his jelly skin and crackles. Stones that crumble. Skeletons unveiled as hooded lies understood. Finally, the foundations of life, dismal.
Reap the forgiveness and sews the bleeding, solidified like ice cubes in a cold condition. Stains the mirrors, the redness of blotched cheeks are pressured under the dirty trails of tears. Spots that seem to enhance when I fall into despair, creases that fold like a book in rebellion. Covers that break and rip and split and fray, illegible in all the wounds of being read too often, taxes of mistakes bite my tongue like it was a felon. To feel human.
Disappointment is a taste that grows stale and persuades the tastebuds to reject the flavours of life that you have never tried. Restabilises a love for the past but one that only existed in loneliness’s objections. Disappointment is when you eat day-old cookies that you find in the back of the cupboard because you miss the flavour of chocolate.