My name, his pupil screamed across the room.
The coarse pages of a New York novel stitched into the binding of my grip.
I am a waning willow under grey skies. The unnerving stillness of chest shatters amongst prose-dripped conversations. Am I ready to? We race to a cab.
We arrive, and in a nearsighted exhaust collapse into plastic-skinned chairs. A hacking congestion echoes between the walls. He stands and as he speaks, I feel his words wrap over my shoulder and then around my waist. Our embrace is an Orchid. As he exits I long for our next season.
We are unabridged lovers seeking vengeance against the moments which separate us. I escape to the tutelage of Jacques Peuchet. I learn the weight of a love born sword, and yearn for the ink to write us away from this moment.
I step out to pavement with Summer's gentle breath igniting the hairs of my neck. I follow Orchid ink veins to a break in the sidewalk. Coddled in the concrete, a pen. I am reminded of the discarded decorations of the blinded adorning our space. I see our future, in beautiful color: The vibrant friction which pours ink to page - dreams stained into their threads.
I return to you my forever, so we can watch our love spill across an enternity of pages longing for a pen.