In the Aftermath

Standstill

It is only in the late moments of the night,
That nostalgia sets in.
Two people, divided – apart. Broken.
Surviving in a daily recount of
A beginning, the end, and a muddled middle.
Each craving the other,
A familiar touch, sensation – inspiration.
Now can only be found in the reprieve of dreams.

We dissolve into what used to be.
It’s as easy as closing our eyes
And falling back into what once was.
The separation is nonexistent.
In true love – in real love,
Two people come together,
To stand on the precipice
Of what ifs and what could be.

Together the entire world lays before them,
Through an entire puzzle of randomness
And an insatiable stupidity
That can only be found in the curves
And sinews of another’s being.
Each in a secret competition,
For in love, we all want to claim the prize
Of greatest lover. Best sensation. Utmost inspiration.

And it is only in the quiet moments of the morning,
When the sun has barely traced the horizon,
That you realize the defining power of one person’s laugh,
For it is only in those potent, yet standstill moments,
That nothing can be touched, nothing disturbed.
It is only then that we are blind to the silent grenade,
For unheeded and unbounded, we fail to feel the blast,
Until we are buried alive in the rubble of what used to be.

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