Contelysia

"Curses are the strangest things," Caricius muses, swirling toddy in his goblet. "From what my grandfather told me, Lothric stood the most vibrant kingdom on the trade route — known for its courts and jesters that enchanted the wayfares. It was a sight to behold, he often recounted." I remember his grandfather, the old chap. He was a priest as well, quite polished in his skill. If it weren't for his untimely death, I would have bid my son seek his counsel in this matter. Perchance, things might have taken a different turn. But alas.  Alas, indeed. Leaning against the bar counter, Caricius' words draw in his young apprentice, Leon. It's rare for the priest to speak so openly, the toddy lowering his usual defenses. Leon seems to sense something amiss—Caricius' discomfort is palpable, a dark secret pressing at the edges of his consciousness. In his haze, Caricius laughs dryly,  “‘Twas the curse of the king, it was!”  he yells,  “The undead, mighty vici...

So I hold on, Like a kid waiting on a porch for her father to come home. I cling to your memories, holding you against my chest like a mother scared to let go of her child. I berate my heart for remembering you like you once were, Not how you are now. So I grasp your fading existence like slippering sand in my tired fingers, I tighten my fist one last time as each grain escapes the crevices of my hands. I am tired; there's no point in lying, But who am I if not a fragment of what you left behind? So I carry you in my tears, in my heart. I carry your laugh, your words, the crinkle in your eyes when I made you smile. When my memories betray me and morph your words into cruelty, I berate my heart for remembering the truth of you, because who are you if not the best I ever had? So I wait for you, To text a reticent 'hi', to call me on my birthday,  To show me something that reminded you of me. I wait. My heart bleeds out, and my mind gives up. But you never come. So, I switch o...