So you're with, without, with, without. Every petal on your flower means something else to you, and plucking them off and delicately placing them on the table means little more than saying those three words in the first place.

but there's something in seeing those petals lined up one next to the other, (like soldiers of your army), that pulls you down in a way that words, written or spoken, could never do. This is the unspoken word. It is a communication that is felt through heartbeats, and the absence of them.

It all seems so fucking pretty it makes you sick to your stomach. Loneliness isn't meant to be pretty. Its meant to pull the lining of your stomach from the inside, and wrench you dry of tears. None of that is pretty to me. Not even the flowers. They're the ugliest flowers I've seen.

There is something curiously palpable about loneliness. You hold it in a single hand, and curl your fingers over it just so that your thumb touches your pointer, and yet its so large that it holds you within its perimeters, in your entirety. Perhaps loneliness is not about the cessation of feeling, or a void, or a vacuum, or flowers. Perhaps its about the existence of dearth, and the measure of it.