Twisted romance

We fall apart in color, in weight, in the mess of everything that was once beautiful.

This is not a portrait of passion itself.

It is the beauty of collapse, the elegance of something that was too alive to survive intact.

This is the mark that passion left on me, blurred, burned, bled out but still pulsing.

Look close and you’ll see it. Not her, not me, but the ghost of us, still alive in the wreckage.

Passion never leaves quietly.
It rips through, it burns, and when the flame finally collapses, it leaves stains that won’t wash out.

Two figures tangled until they dissolved.