watpagin
"fuck you." she's screaming at me as though i murdered her family. why? beats me.
"you're cheap, honey." my only response through a sneer beneath eyes that couldn't care less. never in a million years.
fortune tellers rarely tell the truth. they tell you what came to them in a dream, see your keys and pin down your personality and desires through what hangs on your chain. what's on yours? mine is tomorrow.
aligned either side of me, conversations are glum enough to rip my attention from the cutlery splayed either side of my unfinished meal. hunger is something i don't feel a lot of anymore; not until it's 1am and the world around me has closed in using the darkness of the night as comfort. i hope their lives are better.
sitting himself down in the old chair, the quartet sang as it descended the staircase. "what sort of madness is this?" he asked his reflection. "i thought it was wednesday."
we're alone. there are trees, there's water. the skies are black. the sun has descended into a transparent ooze on the horizon. this is the end of the world, or the end of us. whichever it is, i'll hold your hand to the end of it. on this, this bench, this park bench.
I split the fruit into the shape of my heart. Battered and bruised, it sank to the ground and she bent to pick it up, collecting the pieces in her hands. That meant everything to me as she did. Everything and then more, and it then warped into the shape of the moon to hang over the sky and our love forever.