Prompt: Pride, Crow, City

Or this is an onion: too many layers of metaphors, too indirect, habits of a rambling lover who lost the metaphor halfway.

Today I witnessed a crow pecking at a pigeon carcass. Did the crow deliver the kill? There was a hard gleam in its eye when it jerked to stare back at me, an unashamed onlooker. The crow, easily misunderstood just like that.

A rather morbid scene, but I was meaning to apologise. The crow, synonym, I, not really pecking at your carcass. A metaphor, except the pigeon is missing. Not you. Let me try again. I think of how I am supposed to apologise, run through the scenario. Nothing works. I guess I was trying to say that you misunderstood me. Or, I did not really mean it. Euphemisms for an apology. Is it my pride keeping me from you? Did the crow deliver the kill? Same question. You see, nothing works.

You hated my habit of dressing everything up in words. It does not make sense. Kill the crow. Kill the metaphor. I will try. Let me start from: the pigeon is missing, not you. You are still alive, trying to reach me. Still solid, existing. What I need to do now: find you, give you an explanation, tell you I still treasure you. Another bad habit, you said, not apologising for the things you did. I say, yes it is hard to form the words, it is hard to express my feelings. Excuses, but the truth. Sorry, love you. Easier than I am sorry, and something. I still would shield you without hesitation. Another euphemism.

Then why did I do that? Sorry, love you. Smaller, easier to just stow it all away when facing a new glowing face, you say. My mistake. The guilt is killing me. Selfish, but please do not hate me for what is passed. I hate the past me. I will not do the same again. But still, I refuse to look for you, why? Forgiveness is not cheap. I must not make it easy. I must wait, or until I find us in an unexpected corner of the city, a miracle, fate, you forgiving me. It is easier to get lost.

I think the pigeon probably died on impact against a glass building, a mirage rising above the city. I think the pigeon died while still lost in this new city. I still love. You know it, I hope you do, despite it being incomplete, distorted in meaning. But that is giving too much weight to a full stop.