I could feel it as a low rumble in my stomach, in my head.
The imagined result never as powerful and shocking as the one that were to break through to reality.
To never see your cherub face again, to never hear words pass your tender lips, that once belonged to me but never really all mine.
The entangled strings that lead to your heart, a weaving loom with one direction, one basic function.
Now I sit as an empty shell with echos of your hand on my cheek, the smell of fire, those small pink shriveled roses but most of all regret of giving every bit I had left for you to cast away on a whim.