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Anger

Anger stands rooted to the spot where he had kissed her.

The spot where he’d stopped kissing her. The spot where he watched her leave.

Moonlight pours across the rooftop, the celestials varnishing every surface and clinging to each light fixture. The effect submerges him in cold, glaring colors.

So yes, I see you clearly now. And what I see is a fucking tragedy.

She is right. His entire identity has been immersed in everything he cannot have, in everything he seeks to reclaim, instead of everything he stands to discover about himself.

Merry’s words fling him into the past, into his childhood.

If that’s what deities can remotely call it…