She’s not a place I need to return to.
I could never relive the days she spent
depleting herself,
interlaced by extremes.
It’s disheartening,
her permissiveness,
conceding to imagination,
Relocating to the moments
when she ran entirely on
the urgency of survival.
So desperate to believe the
artifice that is desire.
Her fragility betrays her,
as she harbors herself away
from an ocean of treason,
obscurity, and offense.
Unfaithful reflections are less sincere.
She desperately needs reprieve
from the rapture of this perilous voyage.
If that ocean could only quake,
engulfing her with a tsunami of sensibility.
Then she can permanently concern herself
with the veracity of her
retrospection.
