ataraxia | smudged ink.
they all say:
don’t take what you don’t need.
feet on the pavement,
ice cream in one hand, a balloon in the other –
his mind’s too preoccupied with
longing for baseless freedom and perhaps
he neglects the melting semi-liquid
losing its vibrancy.
some nights he tries to erase
the parallel lines drawn between
reality and reveries,
piecing lifeless syllables together
to paint a picture of her blurred finesse
which he barely recalls.
he’s inhaling the thin sheet of fog
surrounding his sepia recollections
of a short span of time-
without being certain of the identity of
the defined silhouette hiding beneath
layers of ataraxia.
the harsh fumes trace crimson paths
against bare skin as he chokes,
questioning if she was poison,
or a monstrosity from within.
once a daydream,
her : venom in his veins.