He wears her misery like a burdensome medieval suit of armor. It weighs him down, her wretchedness has stripped him of his vibrancy. Aimlessly he searches to make his way out of the confusion; the maze of unhappiness, pity, self-loathing, disillusionment, disenchantment, anger, regret.
Misery has a name and a face, it's not obscure, not something that happens to other people. In his solitude he cries inside, but he is uncertain of his tears. Why does he cry, does he cry for her, or does he cry for himself.
He has been robbed, cheated of his happiness, his life, his emotions, his happily ever after; all that matters now is the inconsequential.
He rushes to do nothing, because it is better than doing her.
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Women have truly been the bane of my existence; I have a perpetual love hate relationship with them – the love part being highly fueled by ...
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Every weekend over the last few months has been somewhere between good - great; with some "fucking mad" sprinkled here and there. ... -
She pins my hands against the wall, I'm disarmed and weakened by desire. The nakedness of this well sculpted caramel goddess now on mine...
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