I've become a stranger to letting my wrists do the talking. Words like drool from the corner of my lips, and feelings of insignificance since I've been gone.
Though I feel more refined, there are wounds that are bleeding out, and I'm still tending to the ruptures, while pinching off your thought.
The calming touch, withered and pale if I tried to describe it. Cold, uninspired, as we run from it.