Suicide

Without hesitation though also without consent, he kills himself. Unknown to him what he does until all is lost and over. Regret enrages him. Damned regret. Fantasies of turning back time shower his fragile frame of thought. What would become of him? Mere ash burned by his own inflammation. Killing himself by smothering himself with mistakes made against himself and who he loves. No one deserves him.

No more retreating. He charges, attacks himself, leaving himself on the soil wet and bleeding. The stab wound was unhealable. He wallows in his self.

Contrast

How he longed for it. He could not bear to be separated from it though he pushes it away. Unbearable was the sadness though he understands that it is his own doing. Nothing he does can regrow what had been cut down. Slowly gnawing upon his will, the sins of his past and present destroy what could be. With the contrast gone, nothing was left to live for. The future was bleak though he was to blame.

Entwined

Only then, even after bouts of insecurity does he ever feel at ease. Nothing, corporeal nor ethereal, could match the feeling of contentment, the bliss of which this entwinement  produces. The gentle caress, the recurring thought repeated over and over redundantly. The longing of this to last, to be of permanence. Frustration angers him. The stagnant air slowly envelops his soul as he dissolves into the damp shallows. Insecurity and uncertainty prevails as the thoughts of tomorrow bombard his being. Sinking again he tries to fight the current. The frigid cold, biting again, working it's way through his will to persist.

He retreats.