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Beat

He's not incapable of love; just loving those around him.

It's an acute sense of loss and the gain of loss that sets him off his axis and tilts his whole frame away from the affections of his peers. The intricacies unfold in a sequence of carbon feelings.

He isn't incapable of love; just unable to bring the emotion to the forefront.

There's nothing inside the semi-empty soul he likes to call a body; nothing besides the gushing, bleeding, pounding, pulsing. His heart beats.

B'thump; b'thump.

He's seen what happens in love and in love. After all, there's no one waiting at home for him anymore. Picture frames empty and smiles only half of a quarter of an eighth sincere, and only then because the man behind the camera is oh, so handsome.

He's lost the appeal, living in a chocolate world that always seems to crumble one spire at a time – one spire at a time.

What he doesn't understand isn't relevant to the overall picture – or so he's told, but there's that analogy again: picture.

While he's on about pictures, he might as well point out that everything's been painted in varying shades of sepia; tones of ruby, burgundy, scarlet, crimson and then the subtler colours, mixed in to somehow dull the otherwise vibrancies that occupy life; chocolate, coffee, russet, taupe. His heart beats.

Th'thump; th'thump.

It's a funny thing, he thinks, but isn't sure what exactly is funny, or why he thinks it's funny. It's the story of his life. The misdemeanour of quiet sobriquet, entitled to the shallow conclaves that group tiny, miniscule particles to make up the giant whale of human society; pooling in and out as the tide crashes against the rocks far, far below.

A beautiful analogy, even if he can't quite wrap his head around its meaning. Elusive like everything else of supposed importance in life.

He supposes he might be a little bitter towards... well, everything, if he's being honest.

"He's never told a lie in his life!" They say – "they" being the "them" who claim to know him. He finds it preposterous; he hardly knows himself, so what makes them so confident they know him? Laughable, really.

Intricacies, indeed.

He isn't incapable of love; just doesn't know where he's placed the well.

He wonders, sometimes. He wonders what life would be like if and after, but never when. The properties of when only apply to people who plan to make it, and since he's positive he won't make it out of high school, there's really no point in dreaming of things he'll never be able to touch in the future. It's become a taboo of sorts; but then again, so have a lot of things.

If – he parts chapped lips and licks them nervously, eyes darting around like spider – if there was a way out....

He supposes it wouldn't be worth it, after all, though the thought is ever so tempting, but if there were, he'd take it.

He isn't incapable of love; just hasn't found anyone worth his time.

There's a clap.

Thunder.

He is the thunder.

Boom.

He isn't incapable of love; after all, he's only just found it.

His heart beats.

Thump.