Breaking between syllables, this painter is lost in his wreckage. A void for discovery’s sake, to see a face that looks back to his pain, to the absence. As this memory unites with himself, a hollowness begins to become so apparent in its torture. Just a single pang of loneliness, doubt, and uncertainty to keep him shivering. Just a face that is here to ignite in his mind, the spoiled times of his youth, beside her. A familiarity so transparent that it designs itself even without a paint brush, to be glorified in hasted waste. A pile of limbs. A contorted soul. A spark of grief in his heart that never forgets, when he cannot ever turn his head around to face the flesh of her.
Just an epitome. An epitome to this grief, that could be kept in a book. Just a hollowness. A hollowness that never lasts, though always keeps itself locked inside of himself. A pain, and it is a one that doesn’t ever die, though slowly makes him feel as though he is dying.
Love never runs far from us. We always hold, in our heart of hearts, the precious, alluring memories that never seem to give up their pull. Pressed, we are not, by those memories, as we always return to them with shimmering eyes. Just a face we want to see, from our mind of minds, that is described to be the definition of beauty. Just a face. And, a one that doesn’t ever fade, unlike the form we have buried.
We have, of love, just the eagerness to look. To stare upon what we have captured, in our heart of hearts, to our mind of minds. Just a speck of bewilderment causes a pain in our eyes, to weep just enough to press ourselves down. We are pressured by grief. Though, as we said, memories pull, like magnets to attract, rather than repel.