It's been a month.
A month since the torrential wind
brought in rocks, hails, stones-
the world is sand, sand, sand
( and like anakin says, i hate sand, it gets everywhere. )
I hate it. the chalky feeling inside the mouth,
the bristle sensation against withered muscle,
the taut pull of pressure wrapped around the ruins of...
I hate this. the sparring wisp of air that struggles to get in,
the wisps of muscle moving with each passing-,
the tugging of each beat of life.
but I don't hate you.
I just hate the fact that you can't decide;
trapping us in this land of waste of maybes-possibly-hopefully-
we could pick up where we left, and finish the bloody trilogy into a sequel all on its own.
it's been a month,
come back
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