There's a palpable sensation within my very bones, quiet spills over my shoulders while ache thumps in my ears. Silence drapes over my back and pulls me back into the familiar room I always end up inside of. No matter the change in swapping my blue coat for a green one, or the time it takes me to decide which hall to turn down. The dancing candlelight seems to be the only source of warmth in this room, but its soft glow only serves to accentuate the chill racking up my spine.
Stumbling around in the darkness, my eyes land on a spool of thread lying alone on the table. It seems to sneer at me, daring me to touch it, tempting me to unravel the tangled mess I've uncovered. Daring me to stick my finger where it doesn't belong once more. As if eyeing the burns over the pads of my fingers with a soft, "You'll do it again, won't you? Isn't the fire warm against the freeze?"
And then there are the blackberries. Rested packed gently into the dish beckoning me toward them, but I feel as if they will only leave a bitter taste in my mouth. It feels as if they are mocking me for my hunger, a craving for that which eludes, which cannot be sated nor consumed at all. I settle for pomegranate, and the stain never leaves my fingers. Much like the bruises in between, and the thumps in my ear.
There is nothing for me in this room. The floors have withered. The drafts slink past worn glass panes.
This room; where I climb into bed as I did before.. Turning my eyes from my guiding star, before I close them to breathe empty wishes for something more.