Period

Figure.
I would want to know if it was.
But I wish I didn’t have to.
For, one had all the fixtures in mind. So I swished and twirled to the rhythm, and an incomprehensible language. And I walked by, for the whiff of stale smoke. I tasted salt on your skin and fought with the ghosts of your past. It was over, you said. And I brushed it off with my nonchalance (at least I wished to).
I killed you.
Even Tiresias couldn’t prevent it.
And I failed, even at making stories.