He spoke in a rough gruff of a voice, trying to hide his disintegrating stability. His neck was moist, appearing to have lost the capability.
"Rosy, my dear, what do you find so grotesque about love?"
"It's not love, it's what love does to you,"
She responded without hesitation. Evidently hiding her deprivation.
He sank into his ribcage, tactically turning air into mist.
"Then tell me, what is love?"
He latched on unwillingly to the idea that their thoughts could coexist.
She shut her eyes in dismissal and bit her lower lip, clenched her jaw real tight
"To tell you the truth Vincent, I don't quite know. I've tried desperately to understand it, with all my might. But I know that it isn't love if you don't collapse into the palms of another like an unstable building when they touch you."
"Be weary my dear, your humanity is showing."
He said with a slight gust of laughter. As if his sarcasm is bestowing.
"Remember that day in July, when a butterfly landed on your hand? And you picked it up and pinned its wings? You do that with everything, you know.
And truly, it stings."
The words lunged from her throat like a long awaited confessional, done by a man sought out by death. Because the concept of peace is obsessional.
"You know that I'd never keep you from flying. I'd never make you choose a cool winds breeze over a life spent in my cage. I wouldn't stand to hear the tortures of your crying."
He swallowed a hard lump down his chest.
"You showed me where to look amongst the gardens and the graves. You pointed out the masters and you pointed out the slaves."
She slid out of her identity into something more comfortable.
**"You must understand, my dear, you are beautiful but you do not mean a thing to me. Love can never be interminable."