monachopsis.

we are alive

I trace imaginary patterns on his skin with the lightest touch. As if he was made out of porcelain. As if I can break him at any second. He is cold, as am I, and I feel alive. We are alive. I begin to trace his veins, his blue and green and purple veins, and I think of the blood flowing through it. I think of the blood spilling out of them, of the deep wounds covering his wrists, and of the deeper ones covering mine. I'm spilling onto his shirt. A peaceful gaze is in his eyes when I look down at them, and I smile up, enchanted by the holes where those green orbs used to be. His lips are formed into a small "o", and to those who don't know any better, it would have looked like a scream for help. But I know. I know. I lie my head down on his blood drained shirt an put my ear right where his heart had been. "We are alive," I whisper, and drift off to sleep.