When the mere illusion of you disembowels everything I could possibly have – viscera, soul, thoughts, persona.

A simple carnation in a vase, harmless and quintessential. And absolutely unintrusive and indescript. Somehow its fragrance – its allure – is as enlighteningly modest as it is toxic. Addictive.

There is no antidote. There is no cure. There is no humane way of fitting between the cage. All there is left is to emasciate in a prison within a meadow, and watch longingly for just one dose. One little fucking dram. But there so much you know you cannot have. Forbidden. Sacriligious. Especially if this carnation is tended gingerly and meticulously.

You could open your mouth or flair your nostrils and there would be no way to avoid its charm. A stationary mesmer. An unproductive task with no perceivable reward.

All that you could never have.