Under The Skin

[Epic Scene: As the mind writes itself out]

I keep seeing this splitting image of you in her. As she walks into the cabin, the air freezes slightly to make an entrance, to let me know it is her. A part of you, in her. Or the fact that your blood runs through her. Those minute details causes a stir to my instincts, but then again there is no point is there? It will always be my imagination. There are two different distances from my door, but which is it, is real? You take her features very well, the contours of her eyes, and the thickness of her lips. Do you talk to her? Or know where she is heading today? Funny, I have this sudden urge to head in her direction or destination. Now I sound like a sick pervert do I? Maybe one day I can be completely honest about my writings and what a sick twisted mind I have. Would you even call me romantic?

Now I can't see her. But just know that she is sitting across with eyes closed; is she dreaming or thinking about what is next to come? Why does she feel purple today? Cold perhaps? I know the fall of her hair and colour have changed, but why? To cut and live; or anew?

This is the moment where I depart. Goodbye sweet image of you. But she opens her eyes as I leave, and I slow down to watch her pass. Sick satisfaction I get in just watching and knowing. Maybe they don't call it fate in this part of our world, or country for a matter of fact. Then tell me, what should I call it?

As I fall behind, please don't tell me she is seeing you? Are you the visit or a job?

This is as far as I can go, or my eyes can see.

This is not right.

Knowing creates a comfort.

Not knowing brings about a fascination.

But we all know, that curiosity have always killed the cat.