If [you] knew the particular poison.
If you were told its details in precision, without omission of the smallest sort, right down to how it would lead you into the confines of madness..
Would you still take it?
Would you [willingly] take it, drink it, touch it, perhaps.. wait for it in the darkness of curious wondering?
If you were told, after, that it wasn’t poison. Would you believe it?
If, perhaps, it was not a “thing”..but a sensation that laced its way along your spine..
..and left you with a breath that could barely be categorized as “shaken”, would you still?
If the very darkness of it gave you dreams, so delicious, that your [heart] ached?
If the idea of it, alone, dripped off your tongue in whispers of all you dreamed?
If you only had the words of another to go on.. would you?
Some moments.. I believe that I am.
It’s a chaos that cannot rightly be explained, when the moment of “What if” is met squarely with all that can be counted as a reckoning. Sometimes, chaos is not so loud as to drown out the sensations.. but a delicate [whispering] of curiosity that sends one into a place, so deliciously scattered, that the pieces are forgotten. Not ignored, or left in waste, but forgotten for the pure fact that someone else has taken the board. Fingers, which curl decisively beyond your own, move the shards in an arrangement that is yet to be revealed. A question leads to inner reflection never before glimpsed, which leads to whispered words and bitten [flesh] as an answer is sought from the [shadows].. which leads to stolen glances, curiously halted breaths, and the knowledge that another piece has shifted. Though, you know not where. It could very well be nowhere, and yet, it is somewhere all the same.
Whether a loss, or a gain, is yet to be seen.
However, it is in anxiousness that the particular detail of method is awaited.
Poison needn’t come from [Another]..