The Possesion of The Rose

A single outcome is merely all that I anticipate. Fantasy always eludes to something else, to some place else. Soft, gentle, and sweeping. The expression is tender. The sediments of the past are a curious reality that blurs and folds over itself, but I hold onto the more joyful moments as if they had been polished and brightened into diamonds rather than dirt. The devotion, the endurance, the captivation. Was that not reserved for mere ladies like the ones I have read about? The ones who dedicated all their present and future love to Monsieur Chateaubriand after having fallen so interminably in love with him.

Clearly, the gift exceeded having been delivered solely to him. It was a strange trance to discover myself in…the kind that devours all your energy, to the point of lacking all fuel whatsoever. Slowly, you reach a state that is the semblance of what you had once been before. As you regain this health, so does your confidence begin to flourish, right until the moment you realize you have not truly escaped. This is the fatal injection administered by famous Chateaubriand..and by those of a similar sort of “charisma”.

An entirely strange evolution is what ruptured from my heart, constantly balancing between flightiness and stability, satisfaction that swirls and and out of existence, grasping for that of true substance: Your long and elegant stem, the thorns that protect your identity, and the round, delicate bud which holds all of life’s most entrancing thoughts.