Talon Sky
Shadow-tainted Heart of Light
I did not write this, all credit goes to /u/joecalla from Reddit. That said, I REALLY needed to share this. It's amazing.
My friends, I present you: A Brexit From My Heart.
I roll over, my eyes still closed, and feel for you with my arm. Hazy images of our union blur through my brain. I remember your constant moaning, the wet slapping sound of our tariff-free commerce, the migration of countless millions of my citizens onto your alabaster skin. But you're not there. My fingers feel vainly at the mattress for a moment before the realization hits me.
I open my eyes, sitting up, and see you across the room, dressing. My eyes take in the white cliffs of your exposed south, the rolling hills of your highlands, the flatness of your central valleys, your eyes sparkling like crown jewels.
"Can't you remain, Brittany?" There's a pleading note in my voice. Despite our short time together, I know I'll never be the same without you. "I need you."
"No, I must exit."
Your words are like a vice squeezing my heart. I can tell a large part of you, as much as even 48%, doesn't want to exit. I can see it in the steep fall of your currency and in the way your fingers fumble with the buttons of your rain coat. Don't you want passport-free travel to Southern France?! I wonder as I stare longingly at you.
"What will happen to me without you?" I ask, my tone growing desperate.
"That's not my problem." Your voice is cold now, growing distant. I can sense the widening of the channel between us, the ministerial resignation in your visage.
"Please Brittany, can't we at least negotiate about this for a couple of years?".... "Well what about Scot?" I ask, gesturing at the other man lying next to me in the bed, oil glistening on his bare skin. He looks at you, frowning, and says frankly, "Well, I'm staying."
My friends, I present you: A Brexit From My Heart.
I roll over, my eyes still closed, and feel for you with my arm. Hazy images of our union blur through my brain. I remember your constant moaning, the wet slapping sound of our tariff-free commerce, the migration of countless millions of my citizens onto your alabaster skin. But you're not there. My fingers feel vainly at the mattress for a moment before the realization hits me.
I open my eyes, sitting up, and see you across the room, dressing. My eyes take in the white cliffs of your exposed south, the rolling hills of your highlands, the flatness of your central valleys, your eyes sparkling like crown jewels.
"Can't you remain, Brittany?" There's a pleading note in my voice. Despite our short time together, I know I'll never be the same without you. "I need you."
"No, I must exit."
Your words are like a vice squeezing my heart. I can tell a large part of you, as much as even 48%, doesn't want to exit. I can see it in the steep fall of your currency and in the way your fingers fumble with the buttons of your rain coat. Don't you want passport-free travel to Southern France?! I wonder as I stare longingly at you.
"What will happen to me without you?" I ask, my tone growing desperate.
"That's not my problem." Your voice is cold now, growing distant. I can sense the widening of the channel between us, the ministerial resignation in your visage.
"Please Brittany, can't we at least negotiate about this for a couple of years?".... "Well what about Scot?" I ask, gesturing at the other man lying next to me in the bed, oil glistening on his bare skin. He looks at you, frowning, and says frankly, "Well, I'm staying."