Months passed, she did not.
There came times when I felt like I needed to be found. This was more of a grotesque fantasy though, rather than a need. It was the darkest parts of my soul, seeking to be hidden from what she might have offered: her love, or anger, or indifference.
So gloomily hidden that she should really look for me -- and in the end, find too.
This was not a chase. This was just a twisted fantasy.
Yet, I kept going to her, serving my being as my most precious gift, oppressing my darkness inside. Those quelled fantasies, however, would strike me at the most inapplicable moments, and I'd find myself swinging silently in the darkness with my unearthly wait for her to reach me.
This wait did not bring any solitude, nor vigilance. It didn't ripen me either. If anything, it just made me more twisted, dark, evil: hungry for affection.
She was the solitude that went against me. And, fuck me, I loved it.
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