the levity of the chance that it was going to reoccur. you saw the world through her eyes. and what a glimpse she let you see. brain teasing the non compliant face of the truth. eyes staring like a gun down your throat, hiding from only fear you let fracture your frail control. brittle and bruised even the tips of your fingers don't remember how love felt. your repulsive collective. always painting pictures, all the stems and synapses signaling the loss. is that okay? picking scabs at open wounds, flesh for flesh. she was a vague memory, he could feel the thought of her eyes creeping up the nape of his neck. stuttering his heart into a motionless abbreviation of living. the embers she entrenched his consciousness in. always an intrigue, a circumvent repeating of his revitalized figment of life to be known nothing of the impeccable motion. climbing down the stairs from the warmth of a room with a creaking door, and the temporary numbered days you built so endlessly. every misplaced object that made his brain function was one of the only reason why he's so disassociated with the myth of reality. forever finding the ways to outlive his friends and family by being that of the only reason he rests in between days. the warm frames, the phosphorescent eyes collective of every minor detail in the fiber of your soul. to intertwine, then rip the seams. reflective skin transparent, translucent. beguiling the chemical imbalances of your veins. pumping the life into your well being. contentious the sequences of the flickering. the way wood soaks up liquid, leaving a dry puddle untraceable by those who play silent. come down from there. additive addictive, painting the pictures. abnormal, the remainder of the thrills.
I'll be alright.
it's the distance.
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