― Faheem

Void of motion. Pursed lips. Words within — unsaid; and it’s tough to not say something when you know it is meant not to be said. Vigour is a sunken ship that hit a chunk of ice while in motion — death of motion; only what reaches the shore is grief, or cries shouting their realisations of loss, also the thoughts, which were nothing like what happened — the acceptance that the belief of probability of having scaled you was a mistake — an utter disbelief.  All that remains is a wish that secrets had found ways to revelations earlier than when time chose.  As every other time, you were only an image — imagined; I was a mirror that didn’t see you, for what you were.