Walking with them was less so walking, but more so the most synchronised dancing, each elegant step as simple as the one before, and as breathtaking as the one to come. Our silence had a rhythm, intertwining with our speeding heartbeat, and wrapping around each other like the world was washed anew. And it was like our limbs were not parts of our body with their autonomy, but extensions of our hearts, only made to stumble into each other.
YOU ARE READING
Unspoken: The Anthology
Художественная прозаFor all the stories that would otherwise go unheard, unsung, unspoken.
