always crawling back to drink in this sense of intrigue. a slip of fate. there was a certain sense. a spirit that sheltered us. an incased movement in which we lived. now tied with dead vines. stuffed in crowded shoeboxes. was there ever a right time? to be appropriate. seduced by the enticement of togetherness. lured by the promise of your face. dismantled every last wish. in the name of malice. this baited hope, a weapon forged from your words. rendered without a touch. these brittle bones slowly mend. sinking as forever yours. animated through misleading moments. always crawling back to drink in this sense of intrigue. abrupt raised hands fizzle on fossilized shores of anchorage. as the amount of passion poured seeps through crevasses of crushed sand castles. and i am negated. there were waves in my eyes and they crashed upon unyielding feet. an absent child reminded of failure. wades in waters of deceit.