Losing a friend

Losing a friend is painful. You don't understand, I have been so alone that once I found you, I made dreams in my head that we were to live together. On a hilltop somewhere, under the warmth of a subtle sun, exactly the kind of matter petals are made of, I thought of listening to your best boyhood memories of romance. Oh, what a story you would have told me to write poetry upon. 

I can't help to see life in metaphors, they haunt. These days, there is a metaphor hovering over. A metaphor I always dreaded that it's almost overwhelming. The shrinking of Mrs. Dalloway's marriage bed. I am scared of that woman, the whitish pale humor of hers, takes the life out of me. I feel like someone has plucked the bud, right before it learnt to blossom. I dread those hands, the touch mortifies me, for I love them so much.

Oh, what stories I could have told you devoid of the consuming possession. I miss talking like a bird so much. There is nothing like you, nothing matches the crash of a bottle I fumed upon once. Why, there is certainly something refreshing about being a child. But, now I have nothing more to give you, maybe someday perchance if I get to see you, I could gift you the loneliness of your absence which is caught like a fish-bone in my throat.