It bleeds no further, Locked in a cavern it once called home. The darkness sits, arms overlapped, Legs crossed. Loving trembles are folded and snapped shut, Tucked away in hidden places Where the light can no longer find them.
A basin for your troubles. A sanctuary for your thoughts. Morning suicide. Afternoon tea.
Forest fire in B Minor.
He falls to the ground, arms extended. Helping hands contain no warmth. The dying embers of a burning heart.
A voice thick with drink. Fingers laced with pain. Markings of the action blazed Across the flesh In tragic lines.
He hates the way he loves him, But needs him just the same.
Don't knock that over. Don't walk away. That's the most beautiful Thing I've seen All day.
Disproportionate; it swells, Gorging on the bitterness that feeds its birth. Lying on his back; bandaged and mixed. The words hang from his throat in suspended carousels.
Smoke drifts off the gun, Spinning upwards with the rubble and the ashes. Tip over the brink and fall back to the source. Flicker in the flames. No time. No regrets. No more.