And we would meet again in meaninglessness and futility.
Our brains crumbling due to sun-damage and moon-carnage.
And then there is the place.
The distorted fort.
Tattered and in shambles.
Like my childhood slippers.
Who hated my screaming pair of shoes.
Immortalised in a dark, gothic wall-hanger.
I could see the two blue horizons meet from different directions.
I see you.
Through the corners of my eyes.
The sun hurt.
The beer helped.
And the quaint afternoon shack in the corner of the Church Lane in Morjim.
The siesta was sort of, short, wasn't it?
It's funny how I saw the place in dreams, my whole life.
And how I imagined you there, with me, when you never existed.
We'll revisit when you're real again.
I also have the stone from the fort, tucked in the battery compartment of my camera case.
But hey, I came back.
With pictures, without you.
Have I ever told you?
And I have made cream of all the roses that I have received in the past.
Of different shades.
They have nourished my lips enough to fill the cracks from the salty brines, bloodless clenches, and sandy smoke.
Even your papery kisses at times.
And now I have begun to not mind them.
What a way to use wither from stopping one.
This is all wrong.
Life, like these words, should have started in reverse.