I miss you like wrath misses jealousy. Burnt up in tokens of unknown indescision staring me down from every corner and I can’t let go. The cat is loose again, and at every tumble I tell myself you must repair or it’ll all be tainted.
Whatever is left of the remnants, may it be the revenant that wakes up only to slaughter every unholy tasks left to do to lead a simple life.
I can only wake up from sin with more incense and crystals than to know I’ve bothered with the wrong spirits.
White magic, have you failed me?
petrichor - archive 