I almost forgot that people could be interesting.
He jaded my every sense without a second of hesitation, and I not only welcomed, but indulged in the intricate detail he introduced into my life. So many turns and twists. Yes, i binged; i enjoyed in excess.
It looked as though nothing else would ever compare.
When he left without a sign the door didn't close, it disappeared. The hallway empty, the backtracking floorboards falling into the non-existence we call the "past". Nowhere to go but ahead i dragged one fingertip in front of the other, edges all inside my palms, body dangling, but no choice to fall.
As days pass, the pain fades to dull boredom, and the endless amass of white walls lose their shine. In attempts to pull myself together again, i grabbed the closest thing possible. Not a doorknob, not a windowsill, but color. Nothing but paint against the flat white walls. Nothing but a lie, an illusion that something is actually there.
From afar i know he is real, but up close i begin to wonder. If i hurt him bad enough would he even cry? If i gave him my soul would he even care?
In the midst of my struggle with deception, I hit something real. some sort of edge.
there is no point, there is no color, there is an open door.
Dare I slip in?
