love is luxury.

luxury that could never be afforded, not with a billion dollar diamond, not with a billion pieces of designers, not even with hectares of land in maldives.

he would extend a hand for the green light piercing through the fog across the sea. like a hopeful pirate yearning for the impossible. but even the light would pass through the gaps of his fingers. like a slipping sand, disappearing on the midnight breeze grain by grain, lost for eternity.

it was a distant dream. a hazy fantasy. but the fog would clear, and he would somewhat found you.

daisy tucked behind your ear. a glinting gun metal daisy pinned on his cuff by you at his military departure. the sight of you standing by the pot of daisies with that look on your eyes, like you've found someone dead, staring back at him as he made love with daisy in the balcony.

perhaps the deathless song in his head was yours, never been daisy's. while those eyes of yours were the burden haunting him, gazing at him the same from the day he left, gazing at him differently from the day you were the one who left.

a cut on your lip, scarlet veiled, painting you to a vision of melancholia. his hand reaching, his thumb brushing across the stroke of abuse killing you.

so softly. so slowly.