Um… yeah. No idea where this came from. I don't write poetry. I was trying to decide if I wanted to post this in a separate story and still think I might do that, but for now, here it is:
The interminable ticking of the clock, counting each moment, each breath. The lack of cases, no excitement, no purpose.
Each thunder clap and rain slashed window a mocking sign of the romance of the rain soaked midnight hour.
Nothing.
The temptation, the impulse to take the plunge into a world where all problems reached a temporary solution.
Pulling.
A pale hand, nervous fingers, reaching shakily for the case up on the mantle. Thoughts of a promise, no more, never again.
Forgotten.
Moroccan wood. Smooth and dark, gleaming in the lamplight.
The faint scent of foreign lands and chemical substance rising from its contents.
Thrill.
The needle, gleaming, sharp and menacing. The rolled up sleeve, the prickle of anticipation.
Poised.
The closing of the door, the sound of boots upon the stairs. The rush of guilt.
Regret.
The door opening, light flooding in. The temptation of the abysmal deep,
Gone.
Murmuring words, warm hands, a soft 'hello' The lighting of a fire.
Peaceful.
A sudden glance. A look of reproof.
Disappointment.
The explanation, the vehement pledge.
Suspicion.
Heated words. Stern reprimands.
Hurt.
Proof of innocence, pleaded virtue.
Evidence.
Loyalty, belief, a look into the wide grey orbs.
Trust.
Sudden change. Talk of excitement,
Case.
Subtle smile, lacing of fingers, relaxing of mind.
Satisfaction.
Impulse for celebration, strings wailing.
Violin.
The spell of languid existence,
Broken.