Page V

Once dubbed as your pillow, we laid motionless until rejuvenation and slumber. Breathing in, then out. Warmth exchanged, tightly entwined beneath the cathode flashes that illuminate the walls of our apartment.

Now this weary head rests upon your calloused shoulder; long, drawn, bleached white and draped within a relentless starch. Attempting to reassembly my previous visions, these eyes resort to an anemic squint. Questioning if pain is suppressible, begging for last embrace; on sentience decline, the failed puppeteer cuddles close to begin its necrotic convulsion. My body has grown too weak to carry you home.

Imperfect in rhythm, the melodic harmony has little expectation of response. Years of a voice, those sweet nothings in which I always listened and adored, perhaps audibility will resurface. For now, too much to say, and with lips pressed against your forehead, my repetitious monologue can only continue in babbled whispers.

Focused touch of a cradle, brushing the mane of your auburn and pink streak. Texturally it feels consistent. As for the rest, anhydrous and arctic, minus the application of lachrymation. It drips from glassy eyes to yours, washing away the burgundy of stains and bruises. Drenched in liquid, sobbing an ocean moist enough to fill this bright and morbid room. Deep enough for us to both float away.

So let us set sail, projecting shadows upon the reflective sands. Our voyage is at the mercy of my tide, leaving nothing but a long silver trail behind us. Remaining wayward castaways to the far distance, drifting aimless until we both sink like precious lost treasure.

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