Every time I read your mildewed dream, it gives me an inane urge to seek shelter in my own voracity of nuances. Though mostly, I cannot tell the urge apart, from the suppressed ceremoniousness that needs invoking to imperceptibly quieten that melancholic whisper. Or the one to weep silent tears for the loss of that vague feeling that I could never completely fathom, but inevitably always left behind familiar wisps. They blend into one another so seamlessly, that it'd take even you eons perhaps, to merely notice its reticent demeanour.
The tenacity of fragility. And our inane efforts, ever so subtle ones. Many regrets later, the palpable scaffold gives way. There's no dam that breaks, no subliminal conspiracy that metaphorically or otherwise, sinews sensation. But alas! the lack of it.
PS: Then, I go back to present-moment-sanctimonious-sensibility and tell myself to beckon both my angels and demons back home.
