With her fingertips, she traced the smooth, darkened skin under his eyes.
"Eyebags," she noted.
"I've been thinking," he murmured, "of you. The shadow of my thoughts is the ink which stains them."
She paused and gazed right into those distant pupils, "maybe it's best for me to leave. For us to be apart. Our broken love etches too deep a scar to heal."
His eyes fluttered shut, like the faint sparks of ignited newspaper clippings gradually dying out.
"Nothing can remove the shadow of us," he breathed, "it's stenciled onto my heart."
She let her hand fall until it hung limply by her sides.
His lips quivered for a fraction of a second and his eyelids opened again, "I'll never let go. It will always be a silhouette of us against the crumbling world."
"Maybe we are the crumbled world," she whispered.
05/14/2016 00:16:26
YOU ARE READING
Are Loving: Present Progressive
PoetryWith her fingertips, she traced the smooth, darkened skin under his eyes. "Eyebags," she noted. "I've been thinking," he murmured, "of you. The shadow of my thoughts is the ink which stains them." She paused and gazed right into those distant...
