The wanderlust smites him upon his cheek, as he sits facing the marble bathroom mirror in front of him. He pulls his ageing hair back to reveal many once distinguishable features hidden by lagging skin draping everything lower. The ultimate blow, that gravity has stolen the only elasticity left in his face, his grace gone. He smiles a while before leaving down the long hallway to the stairs of his fate. One at a time, each step more begrudging than the last, he sighs briefly. Continuing with no pace to arrive at his final destination. The study in which he clambers and climbs each barrier to find something more worthwhile and withstanding than indignity.
The brittle hands of his shake. His tombing life, encasing him. Weak from the youthful dexterity he once owned. The breadth of his own dispute echos aimlessly. Isolation his concentration has long since passed. He’s grasped that not every sign means danger. One day. He’ll join the urn that sits beside hers. As everything was, as everything is, dusted and disorganized. The fight that lead to that nights trial of contempt began with a piano ringing out. His efforts are drawn towards persuasion.
“What would I do? Given the time to breathe again. For I am as dead as she. Yet to burn. Squash me like the ant I am. Toss me to the wrong side of the room. Soon, I too, will be eternally grateful for the burden of these ramshackle stairs.”