when i close my eyes, i pretend it's your soft fingers around the round of my neck, my eyes are hiding from you, they are cowards hidden beneath early tan eyelids, for it know loss is inevitable and it crumbles at the sight of you.
when i look down on the fading colors on my hips, i desperately wished they were painted with your expert fingers and your experienced lips, paint me a portait of an even darker purple with an outline of red, cover the faded light brun lines i had foolishly made desperately trying to find the value in me.
i hear your voice, and it's closer than i think, until i notice that the gentle warm breath that accompanies it reassures me it's not just your lip service over the telephone wires.
once i've let my body familiarise with the patterns of your fingertips, it does not react the same way it does like the way it does to you.
not even to mine.
and as my head turns to you silouhette, writing down the pretty words you know only you're capable of writing, i can't see your smile so clearly.
as the last wave makes itself known, it pulls me under with it, the sea foam made makeshift cuffs on my ankles and it dragged me to the dark blue ocean, it matters not my resistance, it covers me like my noir blanket, and when i open my eyes,
you're still miles away and it's 7am in my bedroom.
alone.
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