The vision nearly stopped me in my tracks. Aesthetic excellence enough to worship.
And then she spoke. Oh my god, when she spoke. All spells were undone. All magic, lost. The youthfulness that poets praise, she warped to disaster. Hardly recognizable. Sloppy. Something not brimming with curious yearning but fraught with gross need. Falling all over herself. Slurring words at 9:30 pm. A spectacle. An embarrassment to beauty. Something to tolerate, rather than to adore.
The ghosts have all gone hollow. Nothing to fear and so little to envy- a quiet sadness in the graveyard. I'm learning yearning anew. An older longing. A controlled draw. Steady, now.
Steady.
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