bmaeus
you hadn't known the smell of a city burning but you know now. smoke rises up between cracks in the sidewalk and you stumble through the fog in a haze, watching as the world goes up in flames around you,
so maybe he's not your boyfriend. but it doesn't mean you don't appreciate the grace of his hands when he speaks or his ability to cross his ankles and not look like a finishing schoolgirl from victorian england; it doesn't mean you don't know the colour of his eyes in hex code or that you've never gotten lost with him in the forest on purpose.
it's an urgent matter, never reaching completion
fallen. ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and you've fallen at last on your knees amidst fire and smoldering charcoal. nothing matters. nothing did.
they grow in woody tangles, braids, intertwining, like your life your past your history; get lost it in, in oldness, age - climb, friend, climb
his gloves were white in a fashion almost unnerving. he was the ideal, the pinnacle of genteel society; teacup and top hat and all. he was graceful. he was polite but appropriately witty. he was skilled in the art of fencing; he was learned in ancient greek. he was sick of it all.
sequins ran down one leg and not the other. it was a trashy pair of jeans - doubtless trashy when she bought them, more so now that holes had been burnt through the knees.
juice dripped from her fingers and onto the grass where he dirtied his toes and got them sticky.
'let me up?' he called.
she reached her orange-stained hands for his.
it doesn't go unnoticed, however much she thinks it might - he sees, his fingers curl; he's said something wrong only he doesn't know what and if he did he wouldn't care.
beneath the shadow of the skyscrapers she is worthless, nothing in a world of lesser nothings; below all else, unnoticed
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