I miss the days of tripping, dipping, swaying, loving, weaving, breathing, just being,
replaced now with one dull flatline of silence.
Ever waiting for the other proverbial shoe to drop.
It's fallen with a harsh thud so ungracefully from the sky on so many occasions, only to be yanked up swiftly by it's everlong lace, that I rarely even startle when it hits me in the head.
I miss the colors of the waves and breezes, the taste of the sunshine that emanated from her lips, the joy of weightlessness, floating freely above the trees, just living.
And now I stand, feet mired in the pallid clay as I dissapate into the stagnant air,
molecule by molecule.
Sort of Escher-esque, in a way, I suppose,
only much less purposeful.
I wonder how long until I cease to be?
Energy can be neither created or destroyed?
I beg to differ because it's happening now.
Fuck the laws of Thermodynamics.