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Sunset, Sunrise, and The Color of Roses
Death came from the heart. The heart, as it filled within its own pumping liquid. ripped in its moment of death as we all though heart break felt like murder. This was quicker; this was colder. Dare they both say, it was love. The knife at hand, hands to their limbs and these systems stemmed from a deep red burning feeling only satisfied with the that same, shimmering, color. This isn’t bleeding. Bleeding defines the word for scraped fingers and paper cuts. More as drowning and complete submersion deep within an entire universe of feelings: the heart is an unnoticed black hole. It will pull all existence into itself as a demand: as its purpose in life. Something’s dripping to the floor. There’s that painful beating sound. Cold, colder, but hardly freezing, my last feeling is this miserable attempt in breathing. There’s air to my lungs; it holds nothing in. Don’t think my story is close to lying. It is no metaphor or shape shift feeling. Both say they loved in the way we all misunderstand it as such. This is death (my death alone). The tragedy is. Love left only one casualty. Red can be a painful feeling.
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