It is bizarre, this sensation, fascinating in its grotesquerie. It floods inevitably, any mood shall be found suddenly awash, it having drenched all in its wrathful wake.
At first an attempt is made, with humility, a peek through timidity. Gingerly it is conveyed, as if upon a novice valet’s tray. The heart’s beat jolts, skips, its rhythm lost in it.
Why this again? Why must we try? What is innate drags itself from the dampened life unlived, it desperately pushes past all gates and barricade, breathless, only to be battered back.
The feeling looms large, itself towering, dark. An abuse of epithets rains down from it as ponds form from evidence of a mistaken motivation. One moment with mechanism, the next unwound entirely, until finally—in a flourish—all is redacted, retracted, and ultimately destroyed.
Nary a lesson learned, never does it stick. The fated result pounding like some sickly reverberation. Surely it is only for the hope of regard, descry, the awful tug of an ever-elusive affinity? Though it is most futile, assuredly, and so with an unheard whisper of an apology: we retreat embarrassingly, necessarily, with anguish—ashamed.
Tomorrow we shall find it stranger, that sensation, startled by its vehemence. It must flood, naturally. Though today, for now, having already met its malice: we move slowly, sheepishly, ourselves delicately forsaken—forborne.