Closure isn't for sale, evidently. And no amount I'm willing to spare can compete to the vulnerability my bones could spell out as they sound so hollow, as hollow as the condolence I extend to you in hopes I'll be consoling myself. //caption// Not Quite. The day felt light-headed itself today, the winter sun like a lost ball of warmth gone rogue. The almost-evening-but-not-quite-dusk, a time that didn't know how to form words to ask for a kiss or a hug. Closure isn't for sale, evidently. And no amount I'm willing to spare can compete to the vulnerability my bones could spell out as they sound so hollow, as hollow as the condolence I extend to you in hopes I'll be consoling myself. Closure isn't even for a look from afar, an aloof petal that doesn't want to go back to the flower's core. It's a cluster. It's a crowd. It's only so human to need a need to be huddled around living souls when they see a tornado being born and approaching. It gives a sense of proxy closure, eh? Do they pray the storm would be benevolent to the synced sounds of heartbeat rhythms?
