Dashed. Like a pinch of salt sprinkled over your favorite dish. Handled with utmost precision and precaution, the individual specks of sodium is elevated between the sweaty base of your fingertips, but once drizzled, they scatter and dissolve; a diffused mass burned into nothing more than a subtle aftertaste when you swallow.

And still the wound retreats with cringing pain as the undetectable compound reacts with your raw flesh; fatal and unforgiving. You can't see it yet to perturbs you, like a sting in your eye--not a tad closer to your vision than it can be and still rendered insignificant, save the incessant irritation.

Such an affliction is mild but the unknown consequences are far more deadly, and only because the cause cannot be seen. I know very well where my pain is coming from, yet it is wasted fruits to marry my efforts with something so intangible; so close to where I stand.

Despite all that, I can only hope to stand firm in my footsteps. Perhaps time will heal all wounds, even those that cannot be seen but most definitely still felt. Just maybe, I can forget all these soon.

But how can I? When I know it's there, and I know what it is, but I can't do shit.