The Needle That Threads My Throat

The pattern that love leaves is a brand on the skin. These interwoven marks of pain remind me of what I once experienced. For nothing that departs is ever gone. Though I may bury it with me in death…for as long as I am existing, it lives within my breaths:

My dreams are a maze.

Constantly and reoccurring…

I awaken with

Thoughts I have of her.

The fingertips of her hand

Latching onto the skin around my neck,

Placing pressure on me

And all my pressure points.

Making me love her even more.

It brings joy to my tears to have pain.

And emotions become elicited in me now

That would not exist had I not known her.

For I am honoured to have experienced her love.

So I weep for love lost.

And indeed, I had experienced it –

That as it came, so did it vaporise,

But just like the tears in my eyes…

Still yet –

It will one day cease to exist.

The mark from her fingers,

The fingers that wrapped my throat…

It remains forever.

Now brands me as hers –

To have been loved and disposed of.

But still, to have been loved… right?

Alas, I know I was loved.

What a feeling.