Implied Confusion

Confusion is a name I will answer if called. I will not answer to Confuse. There is a source of illumination enticing intrigue of wherever or whatever the situation; peril of mental streaming away from the body of existence is sacrificial for him. He will answer to Confusion for you; he will answer to Confuse for me.

"You must promise me you will stay here no matter what may come!"

"I am without my own will of thought at the moment."

My concern immediately reflects upon my twin as the reflection spins back to me. Our mutual brain collapses for these men of women; we opted to blame cologne.

"What fragrance do you wear?"

"One that brings you near...."

"Am I close enough yet?"

"Never close enough...."

"I think of an herb which calms me whenever I am the spell of disease."

"Be more descriptive...."

"Milk of a royal purple amongst the blue glass sea...."

"She doesn't wear a ring..."

He is not talking to me; I never did notice the remark until I read. Wonder what about this house makes him such a craze; we began with an idea outside this dream trading faces with a nightmare every moment I think I am here.

"With those people...."

"Yes.....even if they continue you must bear the residence."

"I do not understand but I know I will do it...."

Part of me cannot look at him as the other pieces fall apart in his arms; what happened to me? She does not feel the same about him as I do. She is a faith for him higher than conservatory mysteries, greater than pyramids, tombs empty for her conviction, she does as he will do however her affection is the creme of amethyst; she does without thinking while I am completely doused in the liquid of gray matter.

"You do not need to understand for our desire...."

"You must do as I ask."

"What do you ask of me?"

"For you to do the same...."

She wears the ring on her right thumb whenever possible however tis smaller than I remember; the silver band slips ever so slightly, handle of the mirror pointed outwardly for grasp. Physically loyal this woman is a lion's thunder hidden between anvil pounding clouds of blacksmith temperament; mentally a wanderer her interest is the jungle.

I still am without a clue how I am here. Perhaps the most conclusive trace for me to conceive without perceiving immaculate conception of blindfold's grace, how did you get there?

Silently the vessel of an empty coffin becomes her reaction; she knows of an experience twice fold at another location she cannot fly, wings struggle hollowed glimpses, the sky is not her playground, this is not recess. Electrical impulse stores integral kinetics without a strike of logic she is lost inside the storm; her eye is somewhere else she desires to know. There he will be experiencing the same, only together will the sorrow fade; otherwise both may disappear into the likeness rather than being, for this they should be aware biologically if such a scientific term pertains to either since the morgue left the door open.

Brad is demonstrating an artistry of my description quite literally; a royal purple tunic I came to adore poured with whole milk from a jug unravels the color mixture inside a shallow tub.

"Absolutely necessary wasn't it...."

"Just a dress...."

"Yes.....but........"

"But what...."

"His fragrance was left."

"You mean the color of the tub?"

"The color is similar yes but the fragrance cannot be recreated; it belongs to him, it is him."

"It is not him. He is not a color or a fragrance."

"I cannot have him any other way."

"Nope......but she can...."

"Who is she?"

"His wife..."

"She let him go."

"You think so..."

"She must be a fool..."

"Smarter than you think..."

"I want to meet her."

"Where is the ring?"

"On her finger I suppose...."

"Find her hand..."

"If I find her hand how does such imply I will get to see him again?"

"Not an implication at all...."

"This is further complexing the current issue...."

"We won't see you for a while."

"Why not?"

"Trouble is coming..."

"A while will be temporary?"

"I don't know."

His tears send me away as he prefers to be in distress by himself; somewhere else another alike feels the same.

I am not possessive of her although I admit torture of letting go; she admits a guilty pleasure, the man in a lavender suit, neither of us ashamed. Memories selfish indeed until given, only then will fill up another space for another to share the house of sentimentality; this must be more than reminiscing while searching within reason for impersonal disclosure of the sleepy happening.