malarial
She walks down whatever it is that separates us, and she leaves me in a swoon. Her hair is long and black, and her skin is like the moon. When she talks, her lips curve, for each time she does, I wish I were her groom.
She looked towards one corner, and then she looked towards the other.
There was no way to decide which flower looked better.
So instead, she stepped towards the middle, took a breath, and stared towards the ceiling.
So that, in this way, she wouldn't have to choose.
And in this way, she wouldn't derive anything anymore, any longer.
Wrapped within thin veils of white. A gown that mars the marbled floor, covering every inch of tile. The wine in the glass, oscillating with red and cider bowers. I see his face there, imprinted, as it wraps me into a cold and stolid cage.