Photograph credit: Etienne Boulanger at instagram.com/etiennezou and https://unsplash.com/@etienneblg
Un-do. My trembling fingers feel the word with an insatiable lust. Like a shirt of a lover long gone, I hug it through the nights, longing for it. Like a sign of my favourite chocolaterie, closed by the time I get there, I stare at it with mouth watering hunger. Un-do. Like an exciting fantasy, nerve-racking if turns true. Un-do. A scandalous promise to wash me off of all responsibility for my prior actions. A guilt-laden sigh escaping each time I imagine being relieved of my doings. Un-do. A paradise maybe too irresponsible to imagine, and yet, luring with its tantalizing, sinful bliss. Un-do. The sensations of shackles coming off both of my shoulders, freeing. Like the construction zone finally ending and I can zoom up my RPMs, rushing away from stagnancy. Un-do. Finally breathing, letting tears roll out, closing my eyes, yet seeing through my skies, being able to fly. Un-do. Didn’t do.