I love you she said, like a shattered dish, the words spread at my feet like so many shards of porcelain. Impossible to take back and beyond mending. Her eyes changed three times waiting for my response, which never came.
. . . In crescendo, its biting sting tolls against the walls of my inner-self, revealing in its pure tone an emptiness nourished on a banquet of isolation. A feast of famine fit for the king of nothing . . .