Suffering

At a distance, even scarlet, sometimes, appears

rosy. Lost blood slithers into

parentheses, eats into the souls of doves,

it leaches, acid, into the soul, slowly

unbearably mauve. It swings its colours

into view, and disappears

from the scene. Much like lost roses.

There is not much left to rave about, when

we speak of the forgotten, because

we have forgotten them. They took

some bits of us, and scattered themselves

onto the winds of our life. I, for one, look

into the evening wind, and whisper. Do you listen

for it? I guess that is another issue of the same

magazine. I. Mouthing monologues in a canned script.

You know, it need not have been so-

bad. We could have parted amicably. You going your way-

obese, overworked, husband, three kids, a

Merc to take them to school; I and mine-

a god-fearing, tonight is tuesday, woman, digging

her teeth into my soul. But no, that is out.

You have yourself, far into me,

Eating me like nothing ever will,

And I love you.

What should I do?

Endure.