In Solitude

"Any world where we are both living," Your other hand is on top of his chest already, fingers spread over the length of his sternum. They stretched almost as long as the scars that were drawn across his skin but held the color that his blemishes lacked. "Breathing," Your hand inched towards his beating heart, contracting at an alarming rate for his own good. You must have felt it running rampant in the palm of your hand as if you had physically removed it from its cavity, "Full of love is a world exactly where we belong."