Loft

There was dust everywhere.

Old, indiscernible books lined the shelves, embossed with gold letters, pages worn. Each of them for you. Not that you read them.

I swung. The dust fluttered down like gray confetti, like those wasteful pieces of paper at your parties whenever you got those wasteful little things. Badges. Whenever I think about you, wasteful is your name, your entire summary. A little kid from the big city. You glowed. Your parents felt your glow. People felt your glow. I felt your glow.

Stupid dreams. Even the good ones are bad, because they remind you how poorly reality measures up. Now I can no longer help myself or anyone around me. I live inside dreams, loving their rainbow than the gray, gray world.

Most of them are about you, your glow. You chose me in the tower of heavens, killed all the living-wax except the one that makes others burn. Me.

I tried to remember anything except your greed that burned in your eyes. I would like to think that you loved your team, especially your little candle. But they're just dreams. You weren't greedy at first, but after that seventh, eighth, something wasteful thing, you stopped holding my hand. The dark stone in your hand, you thrust it at me, ready to get your own chandelier.

There came a point when my body had become so unnaturally bent and convoluted that moving forward was next to impossible. Through it all, I wished you held my hand. My whole being ached and strained against itself, and anytime I could collapse into a blubbery mess on the bone-ridden ground.

Spines.

You watched in impatience.

"Hurry up," you said.

I refused to battle for you after that. Refused to learn what those silvery disks had in store. You became angry, hurled my pokeball until it shattered. I can no longer escape from my hell. No safe world of spherical darkness. I have to live in your oldest room in your richest house, providing violet light whenever you need it.

That is, until I get an idea.

The cartons of full restores are empty.