belaluna
Memories froth and tumble, in remembrance of the saluting men in midst of gunshots and blood.
A salute to the sky, to borders, to death.
He carved himself to her image, to the hopes she held and the promises he made in the late night. In the mirror he could trace the lines, lines carved from moments of refrain, and times of great restraint. In the end, soon, the image created would break and wither from his frame, lies contorted and left in her arms as he slipped by, out the window. The somedays he pushed 'round and back in his mind. He continued to carve, carving the image she created, an image he accepted.
He couldn't stand the brush of velvet his fingers brushed, that his fingers always brushed when he held her. The velvet remained the constant reminder of all he loathed within her, within him: the terrible lies that hung between them, the hatred slumbering beneath their touch.
She could go without, as she always had, going without, for she reminded herself what it was awaiting her. And she smiled, a blithe grin, at memories and the promise of memories to come, to remedy her withouts.
One card to another, as they match up, and, then, there, there is only one left, and it is without its pair. The final match and it remains incomplete, fingers hovering above the lone card, without a thought, without a solution. It remains alone.
and she was so wrapped up in her own little lies, in her own act, that all that became of reality unravelled until this story wrapped her in foil, insulating from the words that she spoke and the words others knifed at her
No strength lies, for there is nothing to keep up, to bring to touch the hopes of those who lifted the crumbling pillar, to save the last of all they wanted and desperately sought in the sky that Icarus fell from.
There it was, a line that ought to be crossed, oversimplifying and unable to reach the obvious compromise. Angry letters, angry mouths, shouting, and tired, tired of this conflict.