A House Lined With Stale Rain (Begging for You to Miss Me Again)

I've been peering through your window, watching you sip your tea. Through the chamomile and rosehips you had once shared with me. Blow the steam that rises to meet your hair; it paints a sterile grey as the liquid rolls down the stairs. There's a body I'm watching expand and maybe it will reach me one day, letters forming its name falling between Q and A. With a lot less left than it had before, your emotions are spreading and can hardly be contained within the boundaries you've constructed yourself, hoping to maintain. There's some cloth around your knuckles that is protecting the glass from you, but it still shattered on the cool grey floor, finding solace you never knew.

I painted my home those joyful colours of red and red and grey, you'd recognize them if you stopped by one day. Polka dots down the banister, shining like stale rain. Some may say the seasons change but they're just floating around again. I grew tired of the rings around my eyes so I gave in to sleep, dreaming dreams that could only make a lion weep. Images of you with that smile on your childish face; and in the background a figure, dark, and a cold mace. Struck you down with grace of a feather and the destruction of a God, and an image emerged through that sleepy fog. Your body, unarmed, unharmed, with your heart hanging out your chest, offering it to a total stranger saying "it's for the best". And the reality hit me right as the figure moved into the mist: I headed toward cutting my gains and forgetting everything I'd missed.