Campfires and what you meant to me.

Beneath the air-conditioner, your fringe would sway across your eyes; the same way it did many years ago atop the sky garden. I could only sink into my seat as the night rushed past my reflection, for you had responded to my farce with your usual deplorable quiddity. Time has not changed you… you were still as wildly exotic to me as you were before.

Indeed it was a complete waste of time debating the peripheries of abstract art when we should have been discussing the more impending issue that urges us to look beyond all criterion of reason and to come to grips with reality before its exodus commences; leaving us to spectate in languid apprehension as it breaks from skeletal cages crafted by human insecurity. There in which I discover myself willfully surrendering myself to your mellisonant arguments. With the aspirant wish that the conversation would continue. Hoping that perhaps I might chance upon unrequited confessions that I ached to hear. Intentionally subjugating myself to serendipity and a myriad of other probabilities.

The gambit was a success and we proceeded to talk of other more carefree things, such as suicide and music. I expressed my condescending opinion on compassion in a despairing reply to your brazen fantasies of irenic demise.

We had talked much while the world withered to a faltering placidity, almost entirely blanketed by the quiescent twilight. Beguiled by an amorous cycle of splendid euphony, I could not find the volition to verbalise my need to depart.

I absconded with the realization that the corollary of such blatant dalliance would be an upsurge of random emotions pushing me in a vehement fashion to either absurd ire or steadfast melancholy.

It would be a long walk home.

~ by cryhavok on December 29, 2007.