If only I could speak the way I wrote.
If only I could tell of what I write to you so that you could understand me better.
Could it be that I dream of a reality that is not my own?
That I see through the living eyes of a body whilst my own rest dead in canvas devoid of colour?
On my back I lay, the stars swirling about me in a cacophony of supernovas, dancing as a bear would in the icy street of old Russia.
He is so pure, a life of perceived innocence in his blood; veins throbbing and arteries pulsing.
Waiting to be released and paint the floor with their iridescent shades.
But he was lost longer than he was found. He lost a lot and gained little that was again ripped from his fingers. A cruel tango of hate more than love and the pain inflicted by loss stronger than the ache of a dull blade in the flesh.
A jolting reminder that no one knows your reality. Just as no one knew his.
With dark eyes hidden behind pale lids laced with grotesque veins laying cold and blue against his paper-thin cheeks. Lashes parted in an unnatural peace, one that he was never known to poses in life or after death.
He never knew the world outside of his own. It was a faraway city with hulking towers like the ones in fairy tales, his heart knew his love but his body withered in pain and crumbled.
There is nothing left but the blank screen of a broken phone and dried tear tracks on his cheeks as the cold pierces through his skin.
His love before it began felt loss before it bloomed.
He now has a story to tell, just as he promised he would. He tells it with ease as the years dulled the pain and the damp pillows muffle his screams.
