Saturday, November 22, 2008
There was reason. There was hope. Now there's only disappointment and decay. The rotting smell means it's time to move. Turning away from your deathbreath I clutch your hair and run. Holding your head underwater until you're done... and still you surface.
I've released the anchor from where I sleep. The place you pryed yourself in and withered from within. There we found ourselves holding on for dear life. Sometimes the simpliest things are impossible. You wanna hold my hand. You want me to pull you up... but i'm holding a noose.