B.E.C.S.

B.E.C.S. Ben Norton And she clings to those last words, as they burst from his, from its, seraphic lips, in a zephyr of mocha beauty, cherubic—pure bliss!—manifested in one foolheartedly constructed heart-shaped castle, made merely of sand; but, oh, oh!, such durable sand— bosom of the earth—sand of the indelible kind, the kind that erases those antediluvian, those excruciating, those magnanimous, those painful memories, those hurtful thoughts, of a time once better—of a place once happy; of a home, whose hearth vehemently vomited up affable fumes of affection...only to have that black core of steel—the bosom of her own arena, of her own decrepit castle—its masochistic frame, collapse in, onto itself; in a heap, a heap of rubble: the flotsam and jetsam of an ephemerally solitary soul-a solitary ephemeral enterprise...the wreckage of what was once good, and will be no longer...

And she stifles a sob, and remembers his last utterance...

Just one more sob...

And those floating bees of sorrow, drifting serenely in the pleasant spring breeze, haunt her forever… …As he clings to those last words …As she clings to those last words …As someone clings to those last words