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SPACED

Heavenly. Aren't you just heavenly.

Maybe I'm ill. Maybe I'm obsessed. Or maybe in the morning I'll kiss you and we can dance like we're not really here.

Are you really here because this is my hand, and with this hand pretty bones crumble into lilac dust, and in the air it continues to dance to the velvet undertones of your voice.

Pretty girls dance with a portrait elegance and spindly limbs that cradle around you.... I could be a pretty girl. I will grind my bones down and dance to the beats of the wind with such grace that sickly pretty girls will cower.

I just want to be close to you.

And like an evolutionary dependency pretty girls trade lusts for safety and safety is scarce and restless when you're alone.

I see your eyes linger don't think I can't see your eyes

pretty girls don't want your eyes without your lust I value your life over mine I could be a pretty girl...

I've put my foot in my mouth again

Maybe I should just keep my mouth shut

I just want to be close to you.

HANDS THAT HOLD HANDS

I've stopped looking so grateful.

Stopped acting so mindful and I'm reaching out for bodies

in the darkness. They come to me so softly but with an animalistic likeness that is frightening and exciting and I'm not sure what I'm doing. Ancient hearts will strive and so put me through whatever you like, because these bowls of caramel and passion fruits do not taste quite the same as poison ivy and pre-prepared noose. Delicacies from a place I have been to too many times. More than enough times the palace is actually mine now. And the boudoir where I rest my head encloses me in its chamber walls and maybe I'm still asleep, well

maybe I don't know

check my palms. Dreams cannot replicate the intricacies of a palm

i am awake.

No mere guessing game could paint the delicate lines carved into my palm, cannot know of the signs and swellings and the hands that have clung onto this one soft- the sweaty grasp with another precious palm and neither of us dares to loosen our grip. Not me nor this nor you and palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss. An embrace worth words unfathomable and I am awake because I know what this feels like, I know what your hand against mine creates and my simple mind cannot recreate such an innocent connection with such the right person. I am awake. I am awake.

If I am still dreaming I never again want to be awake.

BE GOOD TO THEM BOTH. SHE IS WEAK AND HE IS NOTHING MORE THAN AN IMITATION OF HER VANITY

Be good to her. She's rare. A jewel in an Ethiope's ear. A small rose refusing to wilt. But to stare into his eyes is as to hold a rose to the stars and tell it, it is still beautiful. He was something rare but the masculine form must not be cherished in such a way. Must not take pride in such feminine adoration. But he was less than a man. A pseudo of dominating longevity. But what was he such... A waste? A vial of cyanide just waiting; begging to be thrown back? The indifference inside of him began to take control and he fell slowly into a pool of her sorrow. Her flower had began to wilt and no such amount of water or tender healing kisses could cure them now.

HIM

The inconsequential mundane feelings could not have been love, could they? For he looked at the man with pure adoration, but merely so, and with no lust holding a wanton likeness. Weak knees and a heavy heart could have overtaken him at any moment but they just...didn't; and the dependency he felt towards this man seemed to be overpowering him. It became hard to think about anything other than the power imbalance and how insignificant he felt at this very moment. As Julie would say, he should utterly devote himself to this creature and beg to be treated as such a fool, as he does what ever he is asked of him, because being a hitch to someone you love is better than being nothing to them. But did he love him? Surely he could not have. The pure ire he felt at their first meeting powered his emotions for days and the similarity in their musky aftershaves drove him to no longer wear it because he could not stand the thought. Nevertheless, out of pure hatred or conversely out of vigorous fondness, he was thinking about him.