My Cursed Kingdom
This is my kingdom, i am the slave.

Hurtful sounds of melodic trumpets

A cigarette in your hand. I know it’s been long since you smoked one. Snugged between two fingers like you just took a drag, and then got distracted by something. Or someone. A dry leaf in the other hand; autumn it seems. Although it doesn’t seem like its cold otherwise, I don’t see a jacket. Just a bag hanging from your shoulder; nicely tucked away. You were always so good at carrying yourself. Crouching down, the dry long leaf in your hand, a little puppy infront of you. Teasing the little animal’s nose with the tip of the leaf. Your hair nicely and neatly tied up, flowing down by your side, the look that is your own.

Everything in place for a perfect picture; apart from your eyes. Your eyes are not there, they are not seeing what the world is seeing. There is sadness. Only I can tell, I’ve seen those eyes much closer than many people would ever in their lives. I can see the depth and the disjunctured gleam in them. They are longing. Perhaps for me? Doubtful. But hurtful nonetheless. I would give anything to find out what is behind them, in their depths, in their infinite ever growing imagination.

I have read your letters. I see the hurt in them. I see myself in them. I am your inspiration, your strife, your bar. You are my sadness.

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