violins and sea breeze, sandy frustration between sole and skin, sorry to see pain and suffering, but so happy it isn’t them. which is, i suppose, why ‘i’m sorry’ has become so robotic. stilted words that point to what would be sharing, but for how it is used as buffer.
abraided by the sea shore, watching the black parade, ashes into tides… ebbing… i turn, the angry breeze whipping my hair into my eyes, blinded by bravado, i say them anyway, hoping they may sound different, hoping they may sound sincere, hoping that in them you can hear the remnants of bubbling, burbling asphyxiation and know…
i am so very, very sorry.