Anxious hands guide their little black puppets against the wall.
They dance, and the fingers finally ache.
They told the tale I've always known, unimportant and forgotten as the heavy sun rises.
The knuckes had burned long ago, but they whisper sweet nothings upon an innocent cheek.
The lonely shadows play songs I will never hear; I only wish my eyes would water.
I can't control the light, my dear, and I can't say I'm sorry for this.
A solid existence has been thrown through the blades of light cutting between your fingers,
and I couldn't of felt more alive.
The light dies and nothing else matters anymore.
In a distant reality, a moth appears, and the flutter of powdered wings in the darkened room
are undetected as it feeds on filthy clothes.
Your tattered sleeve has been tugged many times before, and I'm afraid it will rip if I let go.