romeo's sycamore trees were beginning to wilt for yoongi. . . his apartment was in ruins, a place where love and care died long before he had the time to care.

clothes strewn on the floor, alcohol bottles reflecting painful light, a spell of despair lingering in such scene.

the wind floating from the opened balcony window sung like mournful violin strings, an orchestra of sorrow ruling yoongi with apathy and his long-gone passion lay weak in the corner.

a quiet, lethargic sunday morning, a day of rest becoming a day of black solace, yoongi's limp body a grand accessory upon his faded sofa bed.

he was left to drown in his own misery, medusas snakes leaving a crimson red trail in the underlay of his heart.

he felt dirty, as vague as that sounds. he felt the lips, touches, kisses, sensual needs of past women that he soon later regret laying eyes upon.

he felt the flashbacks of pastime lovers, one night stands, sly and deceitful mistresses seducing his lowly ghost.

it was a vicious cycle of crystal venom that looked enticing to the naked eye but dangerous, deathly, lethal when experienced. and as yoongi stared off into space, he felt like a python had engulfed him into a burning nothingness.

soon, the low sun dipped itself into a platinum haze, humid air mingling with an awkward breeze.

yoongi found himself walking amidst the twilight heaven of the high afternoon of eight pm.

his apartment was situated along a lavender scented neighbourhood, picture perfect, families of good health taking hearty strolls, a rest from the city centre of london's havoc. everything rose and honey, laughable to yoongi's nature.

there were small, victorian structured buildings that stood dainty but all the details were invisible to yoongi.

he had thorns in his heart that painted his paradise skies with hell flame colours. even fitting that upon his ribcage, a delicate tattoo, no bigger than five centimetres by five, of a black and red fire flame lay.

minutes of soft walking created in yoongi a sudden blossoming of a floweret that desired another decoration, another tattoo.

yes, a very sudden and out of the blue craze but what did he have to lose?

mind full of instinct and art was carried to a row of nineteenth century shops, a whirlwind of colour radiating from the ancient sign lights of take away stores, a perfume boutique and pleasant tattoo parlour.

oh, what a light heart did yoongi carry. he found joy in such hobby, a joy that stood lonely in his feeble enlightenment.

with a light brush of shivers from the transient winds, yoongi entered the peppermint and ink balm of the parlour.

a fresh, inticing aroma it was.

quaint designs of tattoos swayed on the strings tied across the store, and the silent yoongi smoothed his palms across the three-d structurettes of nature illustrations made for the blind.

beautiful, beautiful drawings. intricate in every pencil stroke, accurate with impeccable judgement, and yoongi appreciated the fine artful eye behind such designs.

he immersed himself with the fancy and complex art, concluding that his favourite was a simple clock with japanese characters in place of the numbers.

amidst his admiration and adoration, a faint patter of footsteps halted. "hello sir, could i help you?" a heart rendering, sweet utterance of such silk voice, a darling bud in a field of rosettes, yoongi with stuttering fingers.

a youthful countenance behind the honey voice, short-limbed and spirit-filled tenderness. the brunette boy stood ink free (or at least arms ink-free conscious of his sleeveless ribbed top).

the faint crinkles of happy days of yore beside his eyes were a lovely gift, and yoongi envied the positive aura he radiated. his hands were beside his back in a polite fashion, creating some sort of wise-young character to him.

yoongi looked down at his name tag, jimin.

park jimin.