(no subject)
. . .
as i traced the veins on your hands, dead trees in blue night, you pressed your face against my chest and fell asleep. hoping to extract the little warmth that is left in there.
this mist shrouds us, wrapping itself over our fears, dreams. smearing memories of afternoons spent turning our faces away from the world; the wind from where we were supposed to go in our hair.
like the blood that courses through your alabaster skin, our words flow through a cycle: ending with a weshouldendthisnow and re-emerging with a i'msorryletusstartanew. until this heart that forms when we embrace could no longer lend warmth to anything. especially our hands. we hurt, and hurt each other, because we could. we lied because reality seemed far too fragile to hold within the space between our palms.
we have grown lethargic of the truth; it drowns us in its own indulgence, churning to froth asparas which danced on waves that are the movements of our misery.
they say it all fades. i am still waiting for the gradient point.